DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
His Saviour's Words Going To The Cross.
by Robert Herrick

Have, have ye no regard, all ye
Who pass this way, to pity Me,
Who am a man of misery!
A man both bruis'd, and broke, and one
Who suffers not here for Mine own,
But for My friends' transgression!
Ah! Sion's daughters, do not fear
The cross, the cords, the nails, the spear,
The myrrh, the gall, the vinegar;
For Christ, your loving Saviour, hath
Drunk up the wine of God's fierce wrath;
Only there's left a little froth,
Less for to taste than for to show
What bitter cups had been your due,
Had He not drank them up for you.
The Old Flag
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Have ye heard of Fort Donelson's desperate fight,
Where the giant Northwest bared his arm for the right,
Where thousands so bravely went down in the slaughter,
And the blood of the West ran as freely as water;
Where the Rebel Flag fell and our banner arose
O'er an army of captured and suppliant foes?
Lo torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,
The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.
Heard ye of Shiloh, where fierce Beauregard
O'erwhelmed us with numbers and pressed us so hard,
Till our veteran supporters came up to our aid
And the tide of defeat and disaster was staid 
Where like grain-sheaves the slaughtered were piled on the plain
And the brave rebel Johnston went down with the slain?
Lo torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,
The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.
Heard ye the cannon-roar down by Stone River?
Saw ye the bleeding braves stagger and quiver?
Heard ye the shout and the roar and the rattle?
And saw ye the desperate surging of battle?
Volley on volley and steel upon steel 
Breast unto breast how they lunge and they reel!
Lo torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,
The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.
Heard ye of Vicksburg the Southern Gibraltar,
Where the hands of our foemen built tyranny's altar,
Where their hosts are walled in by a cordon of braves,
And the pits they have dug for defense are their graves,
Where the red bombs are bursting and hissing the shot,
Where the nine thunders death and the charge follows hot?
Lo torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,
The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.
Heard ye from Gettysburg? Glory to God!
Bare your heads, O ye Freemen, and kneel on the sod!
Praise the Lord! praise the Lord! it is done! it is done!
The battle is fought and the victory won!
They first took the sword, and they fall by the sword;
They are scattered and crushed by the hand of the Lord!
Lo torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,
The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.
In Quest
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Have I not voyaged, friend beloved, with thee
On the great waters of the unsounded sea,
Momently listening with suspended oar
For the low rote of waves upon a shore
Changeless as heaven, where never fog-cloud drifts
Over its windless wood, nor mirage lifts
The steadfast hills; where never birds of doubt
Sing to mislead, and every dream dies out,
And the dark riddles which perplex us here
In the sharp solvent of its light are clear?
Thou knowest how vain our quest; how, soon or late,
The baffling tides and circles of debate
Swept back our bark unto its starting-place,
Where, looking forth upon the blank, gray space,
And round about us seeing, with sad eyes,
The same old difficult hills and cloud-cold skies,
We said: "This outward search availeth not
To find Him. He is farther than we thought,
Or, haply, nearer. To this very spot
Whereon we wait, this commonplace of home,
As to the well of Jacob, He may come
And tell us all things." As I listened there,
Through the expectant silences of prayer,
Somewhat I seemed to hear, which hath to me
Been hope, strength, comfort, and I give it thee.
"The riddle of the world is understood
Only by him who feels that God is good,
As only he can feel who makes his love
The ladder of his faith, and climbs above
On th' rounds of his best instincts; draws no line
Between mere human goodness and divine,
But, judging God by what in him is best,
With a child's trust leans on a Father's breast,
And hears unmoved the old creeds babble still
Of kingly power and dread caprice of will,
Chary of blessing, prodigal of curse,
The pitiless doomsman of the universe.
Can Hatred ask for love? Can Selfishness
Invite to self-denial? Is He less
Than man in kindly dealing? Can He break
His own great law of fatherhood, forsake
And curse His children? Not for earth and heaven
Can separate tables of the law be given.
No rule can bind which He himself denies;
The truths of time are not eternal lies."
So heard I; and the chaos round me spread
To light and order grew; and, "Lord," I said,
"Our sins are our tormentors, worst of all
Felt in distrustful shame that dares not call
Upon Thee as our Father. We have set
A strange god up, but Thou remainest yet.
All that I feel of pity Thou hast known
Before I was; my best is all Thy own.
From Thy great heart of goodness mine but drew
Wishes and prayers; but Thou, O Lord, wilt do,
In Thy own time, by ways I cannot see,
All that I feel when I am nearest Thee!
After The Play.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Father
Have you spent the money I gave you to-day?
John
Ay, father I have.
A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away
To a beggar I gave.
Father
The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell,
Such lies that you spin.
Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell,
Say, where have you been?
John
I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need?
To the Play I went,
With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed,
The best ever spent.
Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story, 
My splendid night!
It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory,
Fear with delight.
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale:
He of that name,
A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail,
Two eyes like flame.
All the furies of fate circled round the man,
Maddening his heart,
There was old murder done before play began,
Ay, the ghost took part.
There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones,
And with rage and grief
All the players shouted in full, kingly tones,
Grand, passing belief.
Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day,
And changing scenes:
Great sounding words were tossed about like hay
By kings and queens.
How the plot turned about I watched in vain,
Though for grief I cried,
As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain,
In great agony died.
Father, you'll drive me forth never to return,
Doubting me your son, 
Father
So I shall, John
John
, but that glory for which I burn
Shall be soon begun.
I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout,
Keep my locks curled.
The fame of my name shall go ringing about
Over half the world.
Father
Horror that your Prince found, John may you find,
Ever and again
Dying before the house in such torture of mind
As you need not feign.
While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate,
They shall never know
The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate.
You have heard me.    Go!
Mary's Bonnet.
by John Hartley

Have yo seen awr Mary's bonnet?
It's a stunner, - noa mistak!
Ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it,
An a feather daan her back.
Yollo ribbons an fine laces,
An a cock-a-doodle-doo,
An raand her bonny face is
A string o' pooasies blue.
When shoo went to church last Sundy,
Th' parson could'nt find his text;
An fat old Mistress Grundy
Sed, "A'a, Mary! pray what next!"
Th' lads wink'd at one another, - 
Th' lasses snikered i' ther glee,
An th' whooal o'th' congregation
Had her bonnet i' ther ee.
Sooin th' singers started singin,
But they braik daan one bi one,
For th' hymn wor on "The flowers
Of fifty summers gone."
But when they saw awr Mary,
They made a mullock on it,
For they thowt 'at all them flaars
Had been put on Mary's bonnet.
Then th' parson sed mooast kindly,
"Ther wor noa offence intended;
But flaar shows wor aght o' place,
I'th' church whear saints attended.
An if his errin sister wished
To find her way to glory;
Shoo should'nt carry on her heead,
A whooal consarvatory."
Nah, Mary is'nt short o' pluck, - 
Shoo jumpt up in a minnit,
Shoo lukt as if shoo'd swollo th' church,
An ivverybody in it.
"Parson," shoo sed, "yor heead is bare, - 
Nowt in it an nowt on it;
Suppooas yo put some flaars thear,
Like theas 'at's in my bonnet."
Cares
by Victor James Daley

Having certain cares to drown,
To the sea I took them down:
And I threw them in the wave,
That engulfed them like a grave.
Swiftly then I plied the oar
With a light heart to the shore.
But behind me came my foes:
Like a nine-days' corpse each rose,
And (a ghastly sight to see!)
Clutched the boat and grined at me!
With a heavy heart, alack,
To the land I bore them back.
Not in Water or in Wine
Can I drown these cares of mine.
But some day, for good and sure,
I shall bury them secure,
Where the soil is rich and brown,
With a stone to keep them down,
And to let their end be known,
Have my name carved on the stone;
So that passers-by may say,
'Here lie cares that had their day,'
And sometimes by moonlight wan,
I may sit that stone upon.
With a spectre's solemn phlegm,
In my shroud, and laugh at them;
Or, who knows, when all is said?
Maybe weep because they're dead.
The Black Hawk War of the Artists
by Vachel Lindsay

Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois
To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry.
Hawk of the Rocks,
Yours is our cause to-day.
Watching your foes
Here in our war array,
Young men we stand,
Wolves of the West at bay.
Power, power for war
Comes from these trees divine;
Power from the boughs,
Boughs where the dew-beads shine,
Power from the cones - 
Yea, from the breath of the pine!
Power to restore
All that the white hand mars.
See the dead east
Crushed with the iron cars - 
Chimneys black
Blinding the sun and stars!
Hawk of the pines,
Hawk of the plain-winds fleet,
You shall be king
There in the iron street,
Factory and forge
Trodden beneath your feet.
There will proud trees
Grow as they grow by streams.
There will proud thoughts
Walk as in warrior dreams.
There will proud deeds
Bloom as when battle gleams!
Warriors of Art,
We will hold council there,
Hewing in stone
Things to the trapper fair,
Painting the gray
Veils that the spring moons wear,
This our revenge,
This one tremendous change:
Making new towns,
Lit with a star-fire strange,
Wild as the dawn
Gilding the bison-range.
All the young men
Chanting your cause that day,
Red-men, new-made
Out of the Saxon clay,
Strong and redeemed,
Bold in your war-array!
"Have You Got A Brook In Your Little Heart,"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Have you got a brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so?
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there;
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there.
Then look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the hills,
And the bridges often go.
And later, in August it may be,
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life
Some burning noon go dry!
The Stone
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Have you seen an old grey stone on the seashore, when at high tide, on a sunny day of spring, the living waves break upon it on all sides - break and frolic and caress it - and sprinkle over its sea-mossed head the scattered pearls of sparkling foam?
The stone is still the same stone; but its sullen surface blossoms out into bright colours.
They tell of those far-off days when the molten granite had but begun to harden, and was all aglow with the hues of fire.
Even so of late was my old heart surrounded, broken in upon by a rush of fresh girls' souls ... and under their caressing touch it flushed with long-faded colours, the traces of burnt-out fires!
The waves have ebbed back ... but the colours are not yet dull, though a cutting wind is drying them.
May 1879.
Sonnet, Addressed To William Hayley, Esq.
by William Cowper

Hayley'thy tenderness fraternal shown
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary, and me for her dear sake distress'd,
Such as it is, has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest
Of friendship more, except with God alone.
But thou hast won me; nor is God my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,
Not more to admire the bard than love the man.
Pan.
by Madison Julius Cawein

1
Haunter of green intricacies,
Where the sunlight's amber laces
Deeps of darkest violet;
Where the ugly Satyr chases
Shining Dryads, fair as Graces,
Whose lithe limbs with dew are wet;
Piper in hid mountain places,
Where the blue-eyed Oread braces
Winds which in her sweet cheeks set
Of Aurora rosy traces,
Whiles the Faun from myrtle mazes
Watcheth with an eye of jet:
What art thou and these dim races,
Thou, O Pan! of many faces,
Who art ruler yet?
2
Tell me, piper, have I ever
Heard thy hollow syrinx quiver
Trickling music in the trees?
Where dark hazel copses shiver,
Have I heard its dronings sever
The warm silence, or the bees?
Ripple murmurings, that never
Could be born of fall or river,
Whisperings and subtleties,
Melodies so very clever,
None can doubt that thou, the giver,
Master Nature's keys.
3
What glad awes of storm are given
Thy mad power, which has striven,--
Where the craggy forests glare,--
In wild mockery, when Heaven
Splits with thunder wedges driven
Red through night and rainy air!
What art thou, whose presence, even
While its fear the heart hath riven,
Heals it with a prayer?
The New Decalogue
by Ambrose Bierce

Have but one God: thy knees were sore
If bent in prayer to three or four.
Adore no images save those
The coinage of thy country shows.
Take not the Name in vain. Direct
Thy swearing unto some effect.
Thy hand from Sunday work be held
Work not at all unless compelled.
Honor thy parents, and perchance
Their wills thy fortunes may advance.
Kill not, death liberates thy foe
From persecution's constant woe.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife. Of course
There's no objection to divorce.
To steal were folly, for 'tis plain
In cheating there is greater pain.
Bear not false witness. Shake your head
And say that you have "heard it said."
Who stays to covet ne'er will catch
An opportunity to snatch.
To His Book.
by Robert Herrick

Have I not blest thee? Then go forth, nor fear
Or spice, or fish, or fire, or close-stools here.
But with thy fair fates leading thee, go on
With thy most white predestination.
Nor think these ages that do hoarsely sing
The farting tanner and familiar king,
The dancing friar, tatter'd in the bush;
Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush,
Tom Chipperfeild, and pretty lisping Ned,
That doted on a maid of gingerbread;
The flying pilchard and the frisking dace,
With all the rabble of Tim Trundell's race
(Bred from the dunghills and adulterous rhymes),
Shall live, and thou not superlast all times.
No, no; thy stars have destin'd thee to see
The whole world die and turn to dust with thee.
He's greedy of his life who will not fall
Whenas a public ruin bears down all.
The Call Of The Wild
by Robert William Service

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.
Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert's little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the wild - it's calling you.
Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig a-quiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the wild - it's wanting you.
Have you suffered, starved, and triumphed grovelled, down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendours, heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things -
Then listen to the wild - it's calling you.
They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching -
But can't you hear the wild? - it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,
And the wild is calling, calling ... let us go.
Inside Seam
by Paul Cameron Brown

1
Having wilderness cracks
in emotional facades
chinks within
to let cabins in.
2
Porous wind
examining pavement,
foot-sore maybe loose
winding entrails
of our hearts
into lavatory paper;
would that it pleased
riddled trees
- more whistling,
poked holes
across oasis tracks
wandering spaces.
3
Blistering thought,
paint flecks
chipped in the mica-afraid
heat of wan-ton passion;
(acknowledging debts to Chinese cuisine)
a wan smile
left from which
I pretend to remember all.
4
Love-smitten
to lend
the reach of your arm - 
sighs,
droop to
hips heaving
a droll verandah
(like curtain's edge
across the exhausted wall).
5
Besmirched stain,
The lavender hoop
of your belt is a winding lizard's skin
or perspiring rope
to anchor the filmy edge
of letters written,
not sent.
The breeze,
quiet wind - 
a chipmunk
with woodchips
poked into a grin.
Riches
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Have ye seen the caterpillar
Foully warking in his nest?
'T is the poor man getting siller,
Without cleanness, without rest.
Have ye seen the butterfly
In braw claithing drest?
'T is the poor man gotten rich,
In rings and painted vest.
The poor man crawls in web of rags
And sore bested with woes.
But when he flees on riches' wings,
He laugheth at his foes.
Tit For Tat
by Walter De La Mare

Have you been catching of fish, Tom Noddy?
Have you snared a weeping hare?
Have you whistled, 'No Nunny,'and gunned a poor bunny,
Or a blinded bird of the air?
Have you trod like a murderer through the green woods,
Through the dewy deep dingles and glooms,
While every small creature screamed shrill to Dame Nature,
'He comes - and he comes!'?
Wonder I very much do, Tom Noddy,
If ever, when you are a-roam,
An Ogre from space will stoop a lean face
And lug you home:
Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy,
Of thorn-sticks nine yards high,
With your bent knees strung round his old iron gun
And your head dan-dangling by:
And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy,
From a stone-cold pantry shelf,
Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare,
Till you're cooked yourself!
Henry Purcell
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The poet wishes well to the divine genius of Purcell and praises him that, whereas other musicians have given utterance to the moods of man's mind, he has, beyond that, uttered in notes the very make and species of man as created both in him and in all men generally.
Have fair fallen, O fair, fair have fallen, so dear
To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in Henry Purcell,
An age is now since passed, since parted; with the reversal
Of the outward sentence low lays him, listed to a heresy, here.
Not mood in him nor meaning, proud fire or sacred fear,
Or love or pity or all that sweet notes not his might nursle:
It is the forg'd feature finds me; it is the rehearsal
Of own, of abrupt self there so thrusts on, so throngs the ear.
Let him Oh! with his air of angels then lift me, lay me! only I'll
Have an eye to the sakes of him, quaint moonmarks, to his pelted plumage under
Wings: so some great stormfowl, whenever he has walked his while
The thunder-purple seabeach plum' purple-of-thunder,
If a wuthering of his palmy snow-pinions scatter a colossal smile
Off him, but meaning motion fans fresh our wits with wonder.
Song.
by Thomas Moore

Have you not seen the timid tear,
Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not marked the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmured sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fixt on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?
To you my soul's affections move,
Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith be o'er,
If still my truth you'll try;
Alas, I know but one proof more--
I'll bless your name, and die!
Have You News Of My Boy Jack?
by Rudyard Kipling

'Have you news of my boy Jack?'
Not this tide.
'When d'you think that he'll come back?'
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
'Has anyone else had word of him?'
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing and this tide.
'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind,
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
Faith in God
by Henry Kendall

Have faith in God. For whosoever lists
To calm conviction in these days of strife,
Will learn that in this steadfast stand exists
The scholarship severe of human life.
This face to face with doubt! I know how strong
His thews must be who fights and falls and bears,
By sleepless nights and vigils lone and long,
And many a woeful wraith of wrestling prayers.
Yet trust in Him! Not in an old man throned
With thunders on an everlasting cloud,
But in that awful Entity enzoned
By no wild wraths nor bitter homage loud.
When from the summit of some sudden steep
Of speculation you have strength to turn
To things too boundless for the broken sweep
Of finer comprehension, wait and learn
That God hath been 'His own interpreter'
From first to last. So you will understand
The tribe who best succeed, when men most err,
To suck through fogs the fatness of the land.
One thing is surer than the autumn tints
We saw last week in yonder river bend
That all our poor expression helps and hints,
However vaguely, to the solemn end
That God is truth; and if our dim ideal
Fall short of fact so short that we must weep
Why shape specific sorrows, though the real
Be not the song which erewhile made us sleep?
Remember, truth draws upward. This to us
Of steady happiness should be a cause
Beyond the differential calculus
Or Kant's dull dogmas and mechanic laws.
A man is manliest when he wisely knows
How vain it is to halt and pule and pine;
Whilst under every mystery haply flows
The finest issue of a love divine.