DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
What Have You Done?
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I
What have you done, and what are you doing with life, O Man!
O Average Man of the world - 
Average Man of the Christian world we call civilised?
What have you done to pay for the labour pains of the mother who bore you?
On earth you occupy space; you consume oxygen from the air:
And what do you give in return for these things?
Who is better that you live, and strive, and toil?
Or that you live through the toiling and striving of others?
As you pass down the street does any one look on you and say,
'There goes a good son, a true husband, a wise father, a fine citizen?
A man whose strong hand is ready to help a neighbour,
A man to trust'?    And what do women say of you?
Unto their own souls what do women say?
Do they say:    'He helped to make the road easier for tired feet?
To broaden the narrow horizon for aching eyes?
He helped us to higher ideals of womanhood'?
Look into your own heart and answer, O Average Man of the world,
Of the Christian world we call civilised.
II
What do men think of you, what do they think and say of you,
O Average Woman of the world?
Do they say:    'There is a woman with a great heart,
Loyal to her sex, and above envy and evil speaking?
There is a daughter, wife, mother, with a purpose in life:
She can be trusted to mould the minds of little children.
She knows how to be good without being dull;
How to be glad and to make others glad without descending to folly;
She is one who illuminates the path wherein she walks;
One who awakens the best in every human being she meets'?
Look into your heart, O Woman! and answer this:
What are you doing with the beautiful years?
Is your to-day a better thing than was your yesterday?
Have you grown in knowledge, grace, and usefulness?
Or are you ravelling out the wonderful fabric knit by Time,
And throwing away the threads?
Make answer, O Woman!    Average Woman of the Christian world.
What If Our Numbers Barely Could Defy
by William Wordsworth

What if our numbers barely could defy
The arithmetic of babes, must foreign hordes,
Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words,
Striking through English breasts the anarchy
Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie
Our hands behind our backs with felon cords?
Yields every thing to discipline of swords?
Is man as good as man, none low, none high?
Nor discipline nor valour can withstand
The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout,
When in some great extremity breaks out
A people, on their own beloved Land
Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight
Of a just God for liberty and right.
The Consoler - On An Engraving Of Scheffer's Christus Consolator.
by George MacDonald

I.
What human form is this? what form divine?
And who are these that gaze upon his face
Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace,
With whose reflected light the gazers shine?
Saviour, who does not know it to be thine?
Who does not long to fill a gazer's place?
And yet there is no time, there is no space
To keep away thy servants from thy shrine!
Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes,
Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see,
Thou art not too far to turn and look on me,
To speak to me, and to receive my sighs.
Therefore for ever I forget the skies,
And find an everlasting Sun in thee.
II.
Oh let us never leave that happy throng!
From that low attitude of love not cease!
In all the world there is no other peace,
In all the world no other shield from wrong.
But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long--
For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase--
But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong,
Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release.
We wander from thy fold's free holy air,
Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin!
But if thou keep us evermore within,
We never surely can forget thee there--
Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear,
And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!
III.
To speak of him in language of our own,
Is not for us too daringly to try;
But, Saviour, we can read thy history
Upon the faces round thy humble throne;
And as the flower among the grass makes known
What summer suns have warmed it from the sky,
As every human smile and human sigh
Is witness that we do not live alone,
So in that company--in those sweet tears,
The first-born of a rugged melted heart,
In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart,
And in the words that weeping mother hears,
We read the story of two thousand years,
And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.
The Guest House
by John Le Gay Brereton

What imps are these that come with scowl and leer?
Black motes upon the morning's amber beam,
They crowd and float about each happy dream
And blow upon pure joy the taint of fear.
Perforce those muttered hideous words we hear,
Yet bid our nobler nature rise supreme
And, sunlike, dry to naught th' infernal steam
Till all our day is luminous and clear.
'What cruel beasts find refuge in the soul
Amid the murky deep of sightless flame
Whose waves are flatten'd by a rain of blood!'
Nay, but however pure the waters roll,
The offal thrown therein will rise and shame
Their glittering pride with bubbles from the mud.
After the Accident
by Bret Harte (Francis)

What I want is my husband, sir,
And if you're a man, sir,
You'll give me an answer,
Where is my Joe?
Penrhyn, sir, Joe,
Caernarvonshire.
Six months ago
Since we came here
Eh? Ah, you know!
Well, I am quiet
And still,
But I must stand here,
And will!
Please, I'll be strong,
If you'll just let me wait
Inside o' that gate
Till the news comes along.
'Negligence!'
That was the cause!
Butchery!
Are there no laws,
Laws to protect such as we?
Well, then!
I won't raise my voice.
There, men!
I won't make no noise,
Only you just let me be.
Four, only four did he say
Saved! and the other ones? Eh?
Why do they call?
Why are they all
Looking and coming this way?
What's that? a message?
I'll take it.
I know his wife, sir,
I'll break it.
'Foreman!'
Ay, ay!
'Out by and by,
Just saved his life.
Say to his wife
Soon he'll be free.'
Will I? God bless you!
It's me!
A Kiss.
by Robert Herrick

What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:
The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
What God Would
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

What God would outwardly alone control,
And on his finger whirl the mighty Whole?
He loves the inner world to move, to view
Nature in Him, Himself in Nature too,
So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,
The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.
Paradise Lost
by John Collings Squire, Sir

What hues the sunlight had, how rich the shadows were,
The blue and tangled shadows dropped from the crusted branches
Of the warped apple-trees upon the orchard grass.
How heavenly pure the blue of two smooth eggs that lay
Light on the rounded mud that lined the thrush's nest:
And what a deep delight the spots that speckled them.
And that small tinkling stream that ran from hedge to hedge,
Shadowed over by the trees and glinting in the sunbeams,
How clear the water was, how flat the beds of sand
With travelling bubbles mirrored, each one a golden world
To my enchanted eyes.    Then earth was new to me.
But now I walk this earth as it were a lumber room,
And sometimes live a week, seeing nothing but mere herbs,
Mere stones, mere passing birds: nor look at anything
Long enough to feel its conscious calm assault:
The strength of it, the word, the royal heart of it.
Childhood will not return; but have I not the will
To strain my turbid mind that soils all outer things,
And, open again to all the miracles of light,
To see the world with the eyes of a blind man gaining sight?
The Dog Whose Ears Were Cropped.
by Jean de La Fontaine

'What have I done, I'd like to know,
To make my master maim me so?
A pretty figure I shall cut!
From other dogs I'll keep, in kennel shut.
Ye kings of beasts, or rather tyrants, ho!
Would any beast have served you so?'
Thus Growler cried, a mastiff young; - 
The man, whom pity never stung,
Went on to prune him of his ears.
Though Growler whined about his losses,
He found, before the lapse of years,
Himself a gainer by the process;
For, being by his nature prone
To fight his brethren for a bone,
He'd oft come back from sad reverse
With those appendages the worse.
All snarling dogs have ragged ears.
The less of hold for teeth of foe,
The better will the battle go.
When, in a certain place, one fears
The chance of being hurt or beat,
He fortifies it from defeat.
Besides the shortness of his ears,
See Growler arm'd against his likes
With gorget full of ugly spikes.
A wolf would find it quite a puzzle
To get a hold about his muzzle.
What Heavenly Smiles! O Lady Mine
by William Wordsworth

What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine
Through my very heart they shine;
And, if my brow gives back their light,
Do thou look gladly on the sight;
As the clear Moon with modest pride
Beholds her own bright beams
Reflected from the mountain's side
And from the headlong streams.
Shadow Of Nightmare
by Clark Ashton Smith

What hand is this, that unresisted grips
My spirit as with chains, and from the sound
And light of dreams, compels me to the bound
Where darkness waits with wide, expectant lips?
Albeit thereat my footing holds, nor slips,
The threats of that Omnipotence confound
All days and hours of gladness, girt around
With sense of near, unswervable eclipse.
So lies a land whose noon is plagued with whirr
Of bats, than their own shadows swarthier,
Whose flight is traced on roofs of white abodes,
Wherein from court to court, from room to room,
In hieroglyphics of abhorrent doom,
Is slowly trailed the slime of crawling toads.
Right's Security
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

What if the wind do howl without,
And turn the creaking weather-vane;
What if the arrows of the rain
Do beat against the window-pane?
Art thou not armored strong and fast
Against the sallies of the blast?
Art thou not sheltered safe and well
Against the flood's insistent swell?
What boots it, that thou stand'st alone,
And laughest in the battle's face
When all the weak have fled the place
And let their feet and fears keep pace?
Thou wavest still thine ensign, high,
And shoutest thy loud battle-cry;
Higher than e'er the tempest roared,
It cleaves the silence like a sword.
Right arms and armors, too, that man
Who will not compromise with wrong;
Though single, he must front the throng,
And wage the battle hard and long.
Minorities, since time began,
Have shown the better side of man;
And often in the lists of Time
One man has made a cause sublime!
Papal Allocution
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

"Popule mi, quid tibi feci?"
What hast thou done? Hark, till thine ears wax hot,
Judas; for these and these things hast thou done.
Thou hast made earth faint, and sickened the sweet sun,
With fume of blood that reeks from limbs that rot;
Thou hast washed thine hands and mouth, saying, "Am I not
Clean?" and thy lips were bloody, and there was none
To speak for man against thee, no, not one;
This hast thou done to us, Iscariot.
Therefore, though thou be deaf and heaven be dumb,
A cry shall be from under to proclaim
In the ears of all who shed men's blood or sell
Pius the Ninth, Judas the Second, come
Where Boniface out of the filth and flame
Barks for his advent in the clefts of hell.1
Faith.
by Robert Herrick

What here we hope for, we shall once inherit;
By faith we all walk here, not by the Spirit.
At The Ball Game
by Eugene Field

What gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute,
Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute?
What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place
On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy space?
Sing not, my Orpheus, sweeping oft the tuneful strings,
Of gliding streams and nimble winds and such poor things;
But lend your measures to a theme of noble thought,
And crown with laurel these great heroes, as you ought.
Now steps Ryanus forth at call of furious Mars,
And from his oaken staff the sphere speeds to the stars;
And now he gains the tertiary goal, and turns,
While whiskered balls play round the timid staff of Burns.
Lo! from the tribunes on the bleachers comes a shout,
Beseeching bold Ansonius to line 'em out;
And as Apollo's flying chariot cleaves the sky,
So stanch Ansonius lifts the frightened ball on high.
Like roar of ocean beating on the Cretan cliff,
The strong Komiske gives the panting sphere a biff;
And from the tribunes rise loud murmurs everywhere,
When twice and thrice Mikellius beats the mocking air.
And as Achilles' fleet the Trojan waters sweeps,
So horror sways the throng,--Pfefferius sleeps!
And stalwart Konnor, though by Mercury inspired,
The Equus Carolus defies, and is retired.
So waxes fierce the strife between these godlike men;
And as the hero's fame grows by Virgilian pen,
So let Clarksonius Maximus be raised to heights
As far above the moon as moon o'er lesser lights.
But as for me, the ivy leaf is my reward,
If you a place among the lyric bards accord;
With crest exalted, and O "People," with delight,
I'll proudly strike the stars, and so be out of sight.
Youth And Death.
by Emma Lazarus

What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine,
Thou cold, white, silent Stranger?    From my hand
Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of thine;
Here eyes that flamed with love, at thy command
Stare stone-blank on blank air; her frozen heart
Forgets my presence.    Teach me who thou art,
Vague shadow sliding 'twixt my friend and me.
I never saw thee till this sudden hour.
What secret door gave entrance unto thee?
What power in thine, o'ermastering Love's own power?
A Home.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

What is a home? A guarded space,
Wherein a few, unfairly blest,
Shall sit together, face to face,
And bask and purr and be at rest?
Where cushioned walls rise up between
Its inmates and the common air,
The common pain, and pad and screen
From blows of fate or winds of care?
Where Art may blossom strong and free,
And Pleasure furl her silken wing,
And every laden moment be
A precious and peculiar thing?
And Past and Future, softly veiled
In hiding mists, shall float and lie
Forgotten half, and unassailed
By either hope or memory,
While the luxurious Present weaves
Her perfumed spells untried, untrue,
Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves,
All for the pleasure of a few?
Can it be this, the longed-for thing
Which wanderers on the restless foam,
Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing,
Aspire to, dream of, christen "Home"?
No. Art may bloom, and peace and bliss;
Grief may refrain and Death forget;
But if there be no more than this,
The soul of home is wanting yet.
Dim image from far glory caught,
Fair type of fairer things to be,
The true home rises in our thought,
A beacon set for men to see.
Its lamps burn freely in the night,
Its fire-glows unchidden shed
Their cheering and abounding light
On homeless folk uncomforted.
Each sweet and secret thing within
Gives out a fragrance on the air,--
A thankful breath, sent forth to win
A little smile from others' care.
The few, they bask in closer heat;
The many catch the farther ray.
Life higher seems, the world more sweet,
And hope and Heaven less far away.
So the old miracle anew
Is wrought on earth and proved good,
And crumbs apportioned for a few,
God-blessed, suffice a multitude.
Inevitable
by Abram Joseph Ryan

What has been will be,
'Tis the under law of life;
'Tis the song of sky and sea,
To the key of calm and strife.
For guard we as we may,
What is to be will be,
The dark must fold each day --
The shore must gird each sea.
All things are ruled by law;
'Tis only in man's will
You meet a feeble flaw;
But fate is weaving still
The web and woof of life,
With hands that have no hearts,
Thro' calmness and thro' strife,
Despite all human arts.
For fate is master here,
He laughs at human wiles;
He sceptres every tear,
And fetters any smiles.
What is to be will be,
We cannot help ourselves;
The waves ask not the sea
Where lies the shore that shelves.
The law is coldest steel,
We live beneath its sway,
It cares not what we feel,
And so pass night and day.
And sometimes we may think
This cannot -- will not -- be:
Some waves must rise -- some sink,
Out on the midnight sea.
And we are weak as waves
That sink upon the shore;
We go down into graves --
Fate chants the nevermore;
Cometh a voice! Kneel down!
'Tis God's -- there is no fate --
He giveth the Cross and Crown,
He opens the jeweled gate.
He watcheth with such eyes
As only mothers own --
"Sweet Father in the skies!
Ye call us to a throne."
There is no fate -- God's love
Is law beneath each law,
And law all laws above
Fore'er, without a flaw.
Rhymes And Rhythms - XXV
by William Ernest Henley

What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England,
'To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
To The Moon
by Thomas Hardy

"What have you looked at, Moon,
In your time,
Now long past your prime?"
"O, I have looked at, often looked at
Sweet, sublime,
Sore things, shudderful, night and noon
In my time."
"What have you mused on, Moon,
In your day,
So aloof, so far away?"
"O, I have mused on, often mused on
Growth, decay,
Nations alive, dead, mad, aswoon,
In my day!"
"Have you much wondered, Moon,
On your rounds,
Self-wrapt, beyond Earth's bounds?"
"Yea, I have wondered, often wondered
At the sounds
Reaching me of the human tune
On my rounds."
"What do you think of it, Moon,
As you go?
Is Life much, or no?"
"O, I think of it, often think of it
As a show
God ought surely to shut up soon,
As I go."
Crossing The Plains
by Joaquin Miller

What great yoked brutes with briskets low,
With wrinkled necks like buffalo,
With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes,
That turned so slow and sad to you,
That shone like love's eyes soft with tears,
That seemed to plead, and make replies,
The while they bowed their necks and drew
The creaking load; and looked at you.
Their sable briskets swept the ground,
Their cloven feet kept solemn sound.
Two sullen bullocks led the line,
Their great eyes shining bright like wine;
Two sullen captive kings were they,
That had in time held herds at bay,
And even now they crushed the sod
With stolid sense of majesty,
And stately stepped and stately trod,
As if 't were something still to be
Kings even in captivity.
Les Enfants Perdus.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

What has become of the children all?
How have the darlings vanished?
Fashion's pied piper, with magical air,
Has wooed them away, with their flaxen hair
And laughing eyes, we don't know where,
And no one can tell where they're banished.
"Where are the children?" cries Madam Haut-ton,
"Allow me, my sons and daughters, 
Fetch them, Annette!" What, madam, those?
Children! such exquisite belles and beaux: 
True, they're in somewhat shorter clothes
Than the most of Dame Fashion's supporters.
Good day, Master Eddy! Young man about town, 
A merchant down in the swamp's son;
In a neat little book he makes neat little bets:
He doesn't believe in the shop cigarettes,
But does his own rolling, and has for his pets
Miss Markham and Lydia Thompson.
He and his comrades can drink champagne
Like so many juvenile Comuses;
If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play, 
Why, even on billiards he's almost blas',
Drops in at Delmonico's three times a day,
And is known at Jerry Thomas's.
And here comes Miss Agnes. Good morning! "Bon jour!"
Now, isn't that vision alarming?
Silk with panier, and puffs, and lace
Decking a figure of corsetted grace;
Her words are minced, and her spoiled young face
Wears a simper far from charming.
Thirteen only a month ago, 
Notice her conversation:
Fashion that bonnet of Nellie Perroy's 
And now, in a low, confidential voice,
Of Helena's treatment of Tommy Joyce, 
Aged twelve, that's the last flirtation.
What has become of the children, then?
How can an answer be given?
Folly filling each curly head,
Premature vices, childhood dead,
Blighted blossoms can it be said
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven?"
What Have We All Forgotten?
by Henry Lawson

What have we all forgotten, at the break of the seventh year?
With a nation born to the ages and a Bad Time borne on its bier!
Public robbing, and lying that death cannot erase,
'Private' strife and deception, Cover the bad dead face!
Drinking, gambling and madness, Cover and bear it away,
But what have we all forgotten at the dawn of the seventh day?
These are the years of plenty, years when the 'tanks' are full,
Stacked by the lonely sidings mountains of wheat and wool.
Country crowds to the city, healthy, shaven and dressed,
Clothes to wear with the gayest, money to spend with the best.
Grand are the lights of the cities, carnival kings in power,
But what have we all forgotten, in this, the eleventh hour?
'We' have brought the states together, a land to the lands new born.
We have worked in the glorious weather, we have garnered and reaped and shorn.
We have come from the grass-waves flowing under Heaven's electric lamps
(Making of sordid cities, boyish and jovial camps).
'We' have cleansed the cities and townships: we rest and frolic and gain,
But what have we all forgotten? Did we send the peace and the rain?
What have we all forgotten, here in our glorious home?
(I the greater the sinner because I was greater than some.)
What have we all forgotten so widely from east to west?
(I, and the most ungrateful because I was doubly blessed.)
Sinners to self and to country! and saviours though misunderstood!
Let us all kneel for one moment and thank the Great Spirits for Good.