DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Hell's Gate
by Alfred Edward Housman

Onward led the road again
Through the sad uncoloured plain
Under twilight brooding dim,
And along the utmost rim
Wall and rampart risen to sight
Cast a shadow not of night,
And beyond them seemed to glow
Bonfires lighted long ago.
And my dark conductor broke
Silence at my side and spoke,
Saying, "You conjecture well:
Yonder is the gate of hell."
Ill as yet the eye could see
The eternal masonry,
But beneath it on the dark
To and fro there stirred a spark.
And again the sombre guide
Knew my question, and replied:
"At hell gate the damned in turn
Pace for sentinel and burn."
Dully at the leaden sky
Staring, and with idle eye
Measuring the listless plain,
I began to think again.
Many things I thought of then,
Battle, and the loves of men,
Cities entered, oceans crossed,
Knowledge gained and virtue lost,
Cureless folly done and said,
And the lovely way that led
To the slimepit and the mire
And the everlasting fire.
And against a smoulder dun
And a dawn without a sun
Did the nearing bastion loom,
And across the gate of gloom
Still one saw the sentry go,
Trim and burning, to and fro,
One for women to admire
In his finery of fire.
Something, as I watched him pace,
Minded me of time and place,
Soldiers of another corps
And a sentry known before.
Ever darker hell on high
Reared its strength upon the sky,
And our football on the track
Fetched the daunting echo back.
But the soldier pacing still
The insuperable sill,
Nursing his tormented pride,
Turned his head to neither side,
Sunk into himself apart
And the hell-fire of his heart.
But against our entering in
From the drawbridge Death and Sin
Rose to render key and sword
To their father and their lord.
And the portress foul to see
Lifted up her eyes on me
Smiling, and I made reply:
"Met again, my lass," said I.
Then the sentry turned his head,
Looked, and knew me, and was Ned.
Once he looked, and halted straight,
Set his back against the gate,
Caught his musket to his chin,
While the hive of hell within
Sent abroad a seething hum
As of towns whose king is come
Leading conquest home from far
And the captives of his war,
And the car of triumph waits,
And they open wide the gates.
But across the entry barred
Straddled the revolted guard,
Weaponed and accoutred well
From the arsenals of hell;
And beside him, sick and white,
Sin to left and Death to right
Turned a countenance of fear
On the flaming mutineer.
Over us the darkness bowed,
And the anger in the cloud
Clenched the lightning for the stroke;
But the traitor musket spoke.
And the hollowness of hell
Sounded as its master fell,
And the mourning echo rolled
Ruin through his kingdom old.
Tyranny and terror flown
Left a pair of friends alone,
And beneath the nether sky
All that stirred was he and I.
Silent, nothing found to say,
We began the backward way;
And the ebbing luster died
From the soldier at my side,
As in all his spruce attire
Failed the everlasting fire.
Midmost of the homeward track
Once we listened and looked back;
But the city, dusk and mute,
Slept, and there was no pursuit.
Chopsticks
by Paul Cameron Brown

Only marginal chances
of finding a Great White
in my coffee
although the cigaret's tubular belly
is flotsam against my hand - 
a dirty kerosene color, sleek & grey.
2
And stirring the embers of my cup,
suppose the grinds become primitive shark lore
of forgotten peoples or death sticks,
dry rot teeth, fathoms
squinting light.
Nearly Bedtime.
by Lizzie Lawson

Only half an hour or so
Before nurse calls them to bed,
And the ruddy light of a cheerful fire
Shines over each curly head.
No trouble have they, no sorrow -
Their hearts are lighter than air,
No fear that a dark to-morrow
May bring with it want or care.
God send them each on their pathway
Many a wayside flower;
And grant, in the evening of lifetime,
The joy of the evening hour.
In Time Of "The Breaking Of Nations"[1]
by Thomas Hardy

I
Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.
II
Only thin smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
Though Dynasties pass.
III
Yonder a maid and her wight
Come whispering by:
War's annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.
1915.
When Love is Over - Song of Khan Zada
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Only in August my heart was aflame,
Catching the scent of your Wind-stirred hair,
Now, though you spread it to soften my sleep
Through the night, I should hardly care.
Only last August I drank that water
Because it had chanced to cool your hands;
When love is over, how little of love
Even the lover understands!
Only A Simple Rhyme.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Only a simple rhyme of love and sorrow,
Where "blisses" rhymed with "kisses," "heart," with "dart:"
Yet, reading it, new strength I seemed to borrow,
To live on bravely and to do my part.
A little rhyme about a heart that's bleeding - 
Of lonely hours and sorrow's unrelief:
I smiled at first; but there came with the reading
A sense of sweet companionship in grief.
The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,
I thought about the singer of that song.
Some other breast felt this same weary aching;
Another found the summer days too long.
The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,
I read, and on the singer, all unknown,
I breathed a fervent though a silent blessing,
And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.
And though fame pass him and he never know it,
And though he never sings another strain,
He has performed the mission of the poet,
In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.
Dies Irae--Dies Pacis
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

(As earnestly as any I crave the victory of Right over this madness of Insensate Might against which we are contending.    As certainly as any I would, if that were conceivably possible, have adequate punishment meted out to those who have brought this horror upon the world.    But I see, as all save the utterly earth-blinded must see--that when the Day of Settlement comes, and we and our allies are in a position to impose terms, unless we go into the Council-Chamber with hearts set inflexibly on the Common Weal of the World--in a word, unless we invite Christ to a seat at the Board--the end may be even worse than the beginning;--this which we have hoped and prayed night be the final war may prove but the beginning of strifes incredible.)
"Only through Me!" ...    The clear, high call comes pealing,
Above the thunders of the battle-plain;--
"Only through Me can Life's red wounds find healing;
Only through Me shall Earth have peace again.
Only through Me!    ...    Love's Might, all might transcending,
Alone can draw the poison-fangs of Hate.
Yours the beginning!--Mine a nobler ending,--
Peace upon Earth, and Man regenerate!
Only through Me can come the great awaking;
Wrong cannot right the wrongs that Wrong hath done;
Only through Me, all other gods forsaking,
Can ye attain the heights that must be won.
Only through Me shall Victory be sounded;
Only through Me can Right wield righteous sword;
Only through Me shall Peace be surely founded;
Only through Me!    ...    Then bid Me to the Board!"
*            *            *            *            *
Can we not rise to such great height of glory?
Shall this vast sorrow spend itself in vain?
Shall future ages tell the woful story,--
"Christ by His own was crucified again"?
Goodness And Greatness.
by Friedrich Schiller

Only two virtues exist. Oh, would they were ever united!
Ever the good with the great, ever the great with the good!
Only Be Still
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

'Only be still, and in the silence grow,'
If thou art seeking what the gods bestow.
This is the simple, safe, and certain way
That leads to knowledge for which all men pray
Of higher laws to govern things below.
But in our restless discontent we go
With noisy importuning day on day - 
Drowning the inner voice that strives to say
'Only be still, and in the silence grow.'
We doubt, we cavil, and we talk of woe - 
We delve in books, and waste our forces so;
We cling to creeds that were not meant to stay,
And close our ears to Truth's immortal lay.
Oh wouldst thou see, and understand, and know?
'Only be still, and in the silence grow.'
Reverie ["Only a few more years!"]
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Only a few more years!
Weary years!
Only a few more tears!
Bitter tears!
And then -- and then -- like other men,
I cease to wander, cease to weep,
Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep;
And out of the day and into the night,
Into the dark and out of the bright
I go, and Death shall veil my face,
The feet of the years shall fast efface
My very name, and every trace
I leave on earth; for the stern years tread --
Tread out the names of the gone and dead!
And then, ah! then, like other men,
I close my eyes and go to sleep,
Only a few, one hour, shall weep:
Ah! me, the grave is dark and deep!
Alas!    Alas!
How soon we pass!
And ah! we go
So far away;
When go we must,
From the light of Life, and the heat of strife,
To the peace of Death, and the cold, still dust,
We go -- we go -- we may not stay,
We travel the lone, dark, dreary way;
Out of the day and into the night,
Into the darkness, out of the bright.
And then, ah! then, like other men,
We close our eyes and go to sleep;
We hush our hearts and go to sleep;
Only a few, one hour, shall weep:
Ah! me, the grave is lone and deep!
I saw a flower, at morn, so fair;
I passed at eve, it was not there.
I saw a sunbeam, golden bright,
I saw a cloud the sunbeam's shroud,
And I saw night
Digging the grave of day;
And day took off her golden crown,
And flung it sorrowfully down.
Ah! day, the Sun's fair bride!
At twilight moaned and died.
And so, alas! like day we pass:
At morn we smile,
At eve we weep,
At morn we wake,
In night we sleep.
We close our eyes and go to sleep:
Ah! me, the grave is still and deep!
But God is sweet.
My mother told me so,
When I knelt at her feet
Long -- so long -- ago;
She clasped my hands in hers.
Ah! me, that memory stirs
My soul's profoundest deep --
No wonder that I weep.
She clasped my hands and smiled,
Ah! then I was a child --
I knew not harm --
My mother's arm
Was flung around me; and I felt
That when I knelt
To listen to my mother's prayer,
God was with my mother there.
Yea! "God is sweet!"
She told me so;
She never told me wrong;
And through my years of woe
Her whispers soft, and sad, and low,
And sweet as Angel's song,
Have floated like a dream.
And, ah! to-night I seem
A very child in my old, old place,
Beneath my mother's blessed face,
And through each sweet remembered word,
This sweetest undertone is heard:
"My child! my child! our God is sweet,
In Life -- in Death -- kneel at his feet --
Sweet in gladness, sweet in gloom,
Sweeter still beside the tomb."
Why should I wail?    Why ought I weep?
The grave -- it is not dark and deep;
Why should I sigh?    Why ought I moan?
The grave -- it is not still and lone;
Our God is sweet, our grave is sweet,
We lie there sleeping at His feet,
Where the wicked shall from troubling cease,
And weary hearts shall rest in peace!
A Night-Rain in Summer
by James Henry Leigh Hunt

Open the window, and let the air
Freshly blow upon face and hair,
And fill the room, as it fills the night,
With the breath of the rain's sweet might.
Hark! the burthen, swift and prone!
And how the odorous limes are blown!
Stormy Love's abroad, and keeps
Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.
Not a blink shall burn to-night
In my chamber, of sordid light;
Nought will I have, not a window-pane,
'Twixt me and the air and the great good rain,
Which ever shall sing me sharp lullabies;
And God's own darkness shall close mine eyes;
And I will sleep, with all things blest,
In the pure earth-shadow of natural rest.
Trainor, the Druggist
by Edgar Lee Masters

Only the chemist can tell, and not always the chemist,
What will result from compounding
Fluids or solids.
And who can tell
How men and women will interact
On each other, or what children will result?
There were Benjamin Pantier and his wife,
Good in themselves, but evil toward each other;
He oxygen, she hydrogen,
Their son, a devastating fire.
I Trainor, the druggist, a miser of chemicals,
Killed while making an experiment,
Lived unwedded.
National Policy
by William Henry Drummond

Oor fader lef' ole France behin', dat's many year ago,
An' how we get along since den, wall! ev'ry body know,
Few t'ousan' firse class familee was only come dat tam,
An' now we got pure Canayens; t'ee million peop' bedamme!
Dat's purty smart beez-neese, I t'ink we done on Canadaw,
An' we don't mak' no grande hooraw, but do it tranquillement
So if we're braggin' now an' den, we mus' be excuzay,
For no wan's never see before de record bus' dat way.
An' w'y should we be feel ashame, 'cos we have boy an' girl?
No matter who was come along, we'll match agen de worl';
Wit plaintee boy lak w'at we got no danger be afraid,
An' all de girl she look too nice for never come ole maid.
If we have only small cor-nere de sam' we have before
W'en ole Champlain an' Jacques Cartier firse jomp upon de shore
Dere's no use hurry den at all, but now you understan'
We got to whoop it up, ba gosh! for occupy de lan'!
W'at's use de million acre, w'at's use de belle riviere,
An' t'ing lak dat if we don't have somebody leevin' dere?
W'at's mak' de worl' look out for us, an' kip de nation free
Unless we're raison' all de tam some fine large familee?
Don't seem long we buil' dat road, Chemin de Pacifique,
Tak' honder dollar pass on dere, an' nearly two t'ree week,
Den look dat place it freeze so hard, on w'at you call Klon-dak,
Wall! if we have to fill dem up, we got some large contrac'!
Of course we're not doin' bad jus' now; so ev'rybody say,
But we dunno de half we got on Canadaw to- day,
An' still she's comin' beeger, an' never mak' no fuss,
So if we don't look out, firse t'ing, she'll get ahead of us.
De more I t'ink, de more I'm scare, de way she grow so fas',
An' worse of all it's hard to say how long de boom'll las'
But if she don't go slower an' ease up leetle bit,
Bimeby de Canayens will be some dead bird on de pit.
Den ev'ry body hip hooraw! an' sen' de familee
Along de reever, t'roo de wood, an' on de grande prairie,
Dat's only way I'm t'inkin arrange de w'ole affaire
An' mebbe affer w'le dere won't be too moche lan' for spare.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XLII - Cathedrals, Etc.
by William Wordsworth

Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles!
Types of the spiritual Church which God hath reared;
Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward
And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles
To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles,
Or down the nave to pace in motion slow;
Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow
And mount, at every step, with living wiles
Instinct to rouse the heart and lead the will
By a bright ladder to the world above.
Open your gates, ye Monuments of love
Divine! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill!
Thou, stately York! and Ye, whose splendours cheer
Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear!
Only A Glove
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Only a glove that has touched her fingers,
But it seems to me something half divine.
A delicate fragrance about it lingers,
And it stirs my blood like wine -
Yes, thrills and warms me like wine.
So well I remember the night she wore it -
How I held the hand in its dainty glove,
And whispered sweetly as I leaned o'er it -
Whispered a tale of love -
A story of my mad love.
There was mirth, and music, and light and laughter,
The viols played and the dancers whirled.
We were part of it all -but a moment after
Were alone in love's fair world -
Alone in God's own world.
But now of that night of glow and splendour,
Of happy hope and beautiful love,
Of youthful dreams that were sweetly tender,
There is nothing left but a glove,
Nothing but this one glove.
Only A Line
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Only a line in the paper,
That somebody read aloud,
At a table of languid boarders,
To the dull indifferent crowd.
Markets and deaths -and a marriage:
And the reader read them all.
How could he know a hope died then,
And was wrapped in a funeral pall.
Only a line in the paper,
Read in a casual way,
But the glow went out of one young life,
And left it cold and grey.
Colder than bleak December,
Greyer than walls of rock,
But the reader paused, and the room grew full
Of laughter and idle talk.
If one slipped off to her chamber,
Why, who could dream or know,
That one brief line in the paper
Had sent her away with her woe?
Away into lonely sorrow,
To bitter and blinding tears;
Only a line in the paper,
But it meant such desolate years.
The Betrothed
by Rudyard Kipling

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas, we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box, let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is pretty to look at, Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away, 
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown, 
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
Maggie, my wife at fifty, grey and dour and old, 
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!
And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar, 
The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket, 
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!
Open the old cigar-box, let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manila, there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion, bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counsellors cunning and silent, comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,
This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee's passion, to do their duty and burn.
This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.
I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.
And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,
But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;
And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.
And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.
Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?
Open the old cigar-box, let me consider anew, 
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.
Light me another Cuba, I hold to my first-sworn vows.
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!
Perfections
by Walt Whitman

Only themselves understand themselves, and the like of themselves,
As Souls only understand Souls.
Open Water!
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

Open water, open water!
All the weary winter's yearning
Bursts in restless passion burning.
Scarce is seen the blue of ocean,
And the hours seem months in motion.
Open water, open water!
Smiles the sun on ice defiant,
Eats it like a shameless giant:
Soon as mouth of sun forsakes it,
Swift the freezing night remakes it.
Open water, open water!
Storm shall be the overcomer
Sweeping on from others' summer
Billows free all foes to swallow, - 
Crash and fall and sinking follow.
Open water, open water!
Mirrored mountains are appearing,
Boats with steam and sail are nearing,
Inward come the wide world's surges,
Outward joy of combat urges.
Open water, open water!
Fiery sun and cooling shower
Quicken earth to speak with power.
Soul responds, the wonder viewing:
Strength is here for life's renewing.
Deaf And Dumb - A Group By Woolner
by Robert Browning

Only the prism's obstruction shows aright
The secret of a sunbeam, breaks its light
Into the jewelled bow from blankest white;
So may a glory from defect arise:
Only by Deafness may the vexed Love wreak
Its insuppressive sense on brow and cheek,
Only by Dumbness adequately speak
As favoured mouth could never, through the eyes.
Only a Dream
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Only a Dream!
It floated thro'
The sky of a lonely sleep
As floats a gleam
Athwart the Blue
Of a golden clouded Deep.
Only a Dream!
I calmly slept.
Meseems I called a name;
I woke; and, waking, I think I wept
And called -- and called the same.
Only a Dream!
Graves have no ears;
They give not back the dead;
They will not listen to the saddest tears
That ever may be shed.
Only a Dream!
Graves keep their own;
They have no hearts to hear;
But the loved will come
From their Heaven-Home
To smile on the sleeper's tear.
Harvests.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky,
Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o'er hillside, valley or plain,
Than fruits 'mid their leafy screen.
Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition's race,
The last in talent, power or place,
Will all find work in that field.
Man toiling, lab'ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou'lt shudder in death's cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
At that harvest work instead!
Lady, with queenly form and brow,
Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow,
Who need only smile to win;
'Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave,
Is one whom a warning word might save
From folly, sorrow or sin.
Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright
Will glow with holier, softer light
For the good that thou hast done;
And a time will come when thou wilt reap
From that simple act more pleasure deep
Than from flatt'ring conquests won.
Young girl in thy bright youth's blushing dawn,
Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn,
There is work for thee to do,
And higher aims than to flirt and smile,
And practise each gay, coquettish wile,
Admiring glances to woo.
Ah! the world is full of grief and care,
Sad, breaking hearts are every where,
And thou can'st give relief;
Alms to the needy - soft word of hope
That a brighter view may chance to ope
To mourners bowed by grief.
That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower
That tempt thee at the present hour,
To be worn, then cast aside,
Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring,
Fuel or food to the famishing
And help to the sorely tried.
Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare,
Worthy all toil and patient care,
Think of the promised reward!
Not earthly gains that will pass away
Like morning mist or bright sunset ray,
But Christ Himself, our Lord!