DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
On The Death Of A Very Young Gentleman.
by John Dryden

He who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly and so kind;
Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,
And after some few leaves should find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promised such a race.
We must not, dare not think, that Heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnish'd; so bestow'd,
As more was never to one soul allow'd:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,
Yet durst I guess, Heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the use, did soon recall,
Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappeared, was rarified;
For 'tis improper speech to say he died:
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
'Tis sin produces death; and he had none,
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood:
And that so little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remain'd of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had wash'd it in the way:
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.
As such we loved, admired, almost adored,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious love:
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatch'd away.
Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone:
And yet we murmur that he went so soon;
Though miracles are short and rarely shown.
Learn, then, ye mournful parents, and divide
That love in many, which in one was tied.
That individual blessing is no more,
But multiplied in your remaining store.
The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire;
The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,
And from those parts form one collected grace:
Then, when you have refined to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
Fragment: A Wanderer.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

He wanders, like a day-appearing dream,
Through the dim wildernesses of the mind;
Through desert woods and tracts, which seem
Like ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.
Orator
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

He who has no hands
Perforce must use his tongue;
Foxes are so cunning
Because they are not strong.
A Study In The 'Nood'
by Henry Lawson

He was bare we don't want to be rude 
(His condition was owing to drink)
They say his condition was nood,
Which amounts to the same thing, we think
(We mean his condition, we think,
'Twas a naked condition, or nood,
Which amounts to the same thing, we think)
Uncovered he lay on the grass
That shrivelled and shrunk; and he stayed
Three hot summer days, while the glass
Was one hundred and ten in the shade.
(We nearly remarked that he laid,
But that was bad grammar we thought 
It does sound bucolic, we think
It smacks of the barnyard 
Of farming of pullets in short.)
Unheeded he lay on the dirt;
Beside him a part of his dress,
A tattered and threadbare old shirt
Was raised as a flag of distress.
(On a stick, like a flag of distress 
Reversed we mean that the tail-end was up
half-mast on a stick an evident flag of distress.)
Perhaps in his dreams he persood
Bright visions of heav'nly bliss;
And artists who study the nood
Never saw such a study as this.
The 'luggage' went by and the guard
Looked out and his eyes fell on Grice 
We fancy he looked at him hard,
We think that he looked at him twice.
They say (if the telegram's true)
When he woke up he wondered (good Lord!)
'Why the engine-man didn't heave to 
'Why the train didn't take him aboard.'
And now, by the case of poor Grice,
We think that a daily express
Should travel with sunshades and ice,
And a lookout for flags of distress.
The Ballad of Gum-Boot Ben
by Robert William Service

He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim.
He asked me for a grubstake, and the same I gave to him.
He hinted of a hidden trove, and when I made so bold
To question his veracity, this is the tale he told.
"I do not seek the copper streak, nor yet the yellow dust;
I am not fain for sake of gain to irk the frozen crust;
Let fellows gross find gilded dross, far other is my mark;
Oh, gentle youth, this is the truth - I go to seek the Ark.
"I prospected the Pelly bed, I prospected the White;
The Nordenscold for love of gold I piked from morn till night;
Afar and near for many a year I led the wild stampede,
Until I guessed that all my quest was vanity and greed.
"Then came I to a land I knew no man had ever seen,
A haggard land, forlornly spanned by mountains lank and lean;
The nitchies said 'twas full of dread, of smoke and fiery breath,
And no man dare put foot in there for fear of pain and death.
"But I was made all unafraid, so, careless and alone,
Day after day I made my way into that land unknown;
Night after night by camp-fire light I crouched in lonely thought;
Oh, gentle youth, this is the truth - I knew not what I sought.
"I rose at dawn; I wandered on. 'Tis somewhat fine and grand
To be alone and hold your own in God's vast awesome land;
Come woe or weal, 'tis fine to feel a hundred miles between
The trails you dare and pathways where the feet of men have been.
"And so it fell on me a spell of wander-lust was cast.
The land was still and strange and chill, and cavernous and vast;
And sad and dead, and dull as lead, the valleys sought the snows;
And far and wide on every side the ashen peaks arose.
"The moon was like a silent spike that pierced the sky right through;
The small stars popped and winked and hopped in vastitudes of blue;
And unto me for company came creatures of the shade,
And formed in rings and whispered things that made me half afraid.
"And strange though be, 'twas borne on me that land had lived of old,
And men had crept and slain and slept where now they toiled for gold;
Through jungles dim the mammoth grim had sought the oozy fen,
And on his track, all bent of back, had crawled the hairy men.
"And furthermore, strange deeds of yore in this dead place were done.
They haunted me, as wild and free I roamed from sun to sun;
Until I came where sudden flame uplit a terraced height,
A regnant peak that seemed to seek the coronal of night.
"I scaled the peak; my heart was weak, yet on and on I pressed.
Skyward I strained until I gained its dazzling silver crest;
And there I found, with all around a world supine and stark,
Swept clean of snow, a flat plateau, and on it lay - the Ark.
"Yes, there, I knew, by two and two the beasts did disembark,
And so in haste I ran and traced in letters on the Ark
My human name - Ben Smith's the same. And now I want to float
A syndicate to haul and freight to town that noble boat."
I met him later in a bar and made a gay remark
Anent an ancient miner and an option on the Ark.
He gazed at me reproachfully, as only topers can;
But what he said I can't repeat - he was a bad old man.
Compassion
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

He was a failure, and one day he died.
Across the border of the mapless land
He found himself among a sad-eyed band
Of disappointed souls; they, too, had tried
And missed their purpose.    With one voice they cried
Unto the shining Angel in command:
'Oh, lead us not before our Lord to stand,
For we are failures, failures!    Let us hide.'
Yet on the Angel fared, until they stood
Before the Master.    (Even His holy place
The hideous noises of the earth assailed.)
Christ reached His arms out to the trembling brood,
With God's vast sorrow in His listening face.
Come unto Me,' He said; 'I, too, have failed.'
Honest John.
by Hattie Howard

He was a man whose lot was cast,
As some might think, in lines severe;
In humble toil whose life was passed
From week to week, from year to year;
And yet, by wife and children blessed,
He labored on with cheerful zest.
As one revered and set apart,
A quaint, unusual name he bore
That well became the frugal heart;
While plain habiliments he wore
Without a tremor or a chill
At thought of some uncanceled bill.
A king might not disdain to wear
The title so appropriate
To one who never sought to share
Exalted station 'mong the great,
Nor cared if on the scroll of fame
Were never traced his worthy name.
As bound by honor's righteous law
In strictest rectitude he wrought - 
The man who calmly, clearly saw
His duty, and who dallied not - 
To garner life's necessities
For those whose comfort heightened his.
The parent bird its brood protects
As fledglings in their downy nest,
Until a Power their flight directs
From trial trips to distant quest,
Through trackless zones of ether blue,
For bird companions strange and new.
But ere his babes from prattlers grew,
Upon his knee or by his side,
To womanhood and manhood true - 
Too soon we thought - the father died;
How could we know, when Death was nigh
Those little wings were taught to fly?
Another name his boyhood knew,
So seldom heard that lapse of years
Had made it seem a thing untrue,
Unmusical to friendly ears;
And thus his appellation odd
His passport was where'er he trod.
So long, on every lip and tongue
As if by universal whim,
To him had his cognomen clung,
And like a garment fitted him,
That angels even must have heard
Of one, like them, in love preferred.
And when he came to Heaven's door,
To Peter's self or acolyte,
The holy warder looking o'er,
"'Tis 'Honest John!'" he said aright;
And his pilgrim spirit passed within
Because his walk with God had been.
From Ali Ben Abu Taleb
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,
And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.
On two days it steads not to run from thy grave,
The appointed, and the unappointed day;
On the first, neither balm nor physician can save,
Nor thee, on the second, the Universe slay.
Eternity
by William Blake

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
Meeting Of The Clabberhuses, The
by Sam Walter Foss

I
He was the Chairman of the Guild
Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs;
He was chief Mentor of the Lodge
Of the Oracular Oligarchs;
He was the Lord High Autocrat
And Vizier of the Sons of Light,
And Sultan and Grand Mandarin
Of the Millennial Men of Might.
He was Grand Totem and High Priest
Of the Independent Potentates;
Grand Mogul of the Galaxy
Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;
The President of the Dandydudes,
The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;
The Leader of the Clubtown Band
And Architects of Melody.
II
She was Grand Worthy Prophetess
Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark;
Of Vestals of the Third Degree
She was Most Potent Matriarch;
She was High Priestess of the Shrine
Of Clubtown's Culture Coterie,
And First Vice-President of the League
Of the illustrious G. A. B.
She was the First Dame of the Club
For teaching Patagonians Greek;
She was Chief Clerk and Auditor
Of Clubtown's Anti-Bachelor Clique;
She was High Treasurer of the Fund
For Borrioboolighalians,
And the Fund for Sending Browning's Poems
To Native-born Australians.
III
Once to a crowded social fete
Both these much-titled people came,
And each perceived, when introduced,
They had the selfsame name.
Their hostess said, when first they met:
"Permit me now to introduce
My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse
To Mrs. Clabberhuse."
"'Tis very strange," said she to him,
"Such an unusual name!
A name so very seldom heard,
That we should bear the same."
"Indeed, 'tis wonderful," said he,
"And I'm surprised the more,
Because I never heard the name
Outside my home before.
"But now I come to look at you,"
Said he, "upon my life,
If I am not indeed deceived,
You are, you are, my wife."
She gazed into his searching face
And seemed to look him through;
"Indeed," said she, "it seems to me
You are my husband, too.
"I've been so busy with my clubs
And in my various spheres
I have not seen you now," she said,
"For over fourteen years."
"That's just the way it's been with me,
These clubs demand a sight"
And then they both politely bowed,
And sweetly said "Good night."
On Strike.
by John Hartley

He wandered slipshod through the street,
His clothes had many a rent;
His shoes seemed dropping from his feet,
His eyes were downward bent.
His face was sallow, pale and thin,
His beard neglected grew,
Upon his once close shaven chin,
Like bristles sticking through.
I'd known him in much better state,
As "old hard-working Mike,"
I asked, would he the cause relate?
Said he, "Awm aght on th' strike.
Yo're capt, noa daat, to see me thus,
Aw'm shamed to meet a friend;
It's varry hard on th' mooast on us,
We wish 't wor at an end.
Aw cannot spend mi time i'th' haase,
An see mi childer pine;
They havn't what'll feed a maase,
But that's noa fault o' mine.
Th' wife's varry nearly brokken daan, - 
Shoo addles all we get,
Wol aw goa skulkin all throo th' taan,
I' sorrow, rags an debt.
But then yo know it has to be,
Th' committee tells us that;
They owt to know, - but as for me,
Aw find it's hard, - that's flat.
They say 'at th' miaisters suffer mooar
Nor we can ivver guess; - 
But th' sufferin they may endure,
Maks mine noa morsel less.
But then th' committee says it's reight;
Soa aw mun rest content,
An we mun still, goa on wi' th' feight,
What comes o' jock or rent.
Aw dooant like to desart mi mates,
But one thing aw dooant like;
When th' table shows but empty plates
It's hard to be on th' strike.
Gooid day, - for cake awst ha to fend,
Them childer's maaths to fill;
Th' committee say th' strike sooin will end;
Aw hooap to God it will."
The Idiot Boy
by Rudyard Kipling

He wandered down the moutain grade 
Beyond the speed assigned,
A youth whom Justice often stayed
And generally fined.
He went alone, that none might know
If he could drive or steer.
Now he is in the ditch, and Oh!
The differential gear!
The Passer-By
by Thomas Hardy

L. H. Recalls Her Romance
He used to pass, well-trimmed and brushed,
My window every day,
And when I smiled on him he blushed,
That youth, quite as a girl might; aye,
In the shyest way.
Thus often did he pass hereby,
That youth of bounding gait,
Until the one who blushed was I,
And he became, as here I sate,
My joy, my fate.
And now he passes by no more,
That youth I loved too true!
I grieve should he, as here of yore,
Pass elsewhere, seated in his view,
Some maiden new!
If such should be, alas for her!
He'll make her feel him dear,
Become her daily comforter,
Then tire him of her beauteous gear,
And disappear!
Sonnet XXXVI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quel che 'n Tessaglia ebbe le man s' pronte.
SOME HAVE WEPT FOR THEIR WORST ENEMIES, BUT LAURA DEIGNS HIM NOT A SINGLE TEAR.
He who for empire at Pharsalia threw,
Reddening its beauteous plain with civil gore,
As Pompey's corse his conquering soldiers bore,
Wept when the well-known features met his view:
The shepherd youth, who fierce Goliath slew,
Had long rebellious children to deplore,
And bent, in generous grief, the brave Saul o'er
His shame and fall when proud Gilboa knew:
But you, whose cheek with pity never paled,
Who still have shields at hand to guard you well
Against Love's bow, which shoots its darts in vain,
Behold me by a thousand deaths assail'd,
And yet no tears of thine compassion tell,
But in those bright eyes anger and disdain.
MACGREGOR.
The Credit Of The Conqueror.
by Robert Herrick

He who commends the vanquished, speaks the power
And glorifies the worthy conqueror.
Jim
by James Whitcomb Riley

He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour.,
Consumpted-Iookin' - but la!
The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest
Feller you ever saw!
Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,
And his feelin's too!
Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' on
Like he ust to do!
Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt,
A better feller'n Jim!
You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else -
You could git it o' him!
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!
Give up ever' nickel he's worth -
And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,
He'd a-give you the earth!
Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some
Pore feller onto his feet -
He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f,
So's the feller got somepin' to eat!
Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed,
He ust to say to me,
"You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job,
And he'll git along!" says he.
Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly much
O' this world's goods at a time.
'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'n likely,
Turn round and borry a dime!
Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile - then jerk his coat,
And kindo' square his chin,
Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench,
And go to peggin' ag'in!
Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurly
Coughed hisse'f to death!
Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and say
He could git ever'thing but his breath -
"You fellers," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say,
"Is a-pilin' onto me
A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack
Through all Eternity!"
Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me,
'At ortn't a-never a-died!
"But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss said -
"On'y to Jim!" and cried:
And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop -
Er the whole blame neighborhood,
He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day
But jes set around and feel good!"
A Legend
by Abram Joseph Ryan

He walked alone beside the lonely sea,
The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,
His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands
Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer.
And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!
Brown sandals on His feet -- His face downcast,
As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns.
His face looked like His Mother's -- only hers
Had not those strange serenities and stirs
That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.
He wore the seamless robe His Mother made --
And as He gathered it about His breast,
The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice
Murmur, "Oh! My Mother" -- the white sands felt
The touch of tender tears He wept the while.
He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off
To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave --
For He had walked across the desert sands
All day long -- and as He bathed His feet
He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years!
And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come
And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave
All weary feet on all their thorny ways."
"Three years! three years!" He murmured still again,
"Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will --
My Father's will -- biddeth Me bide that time."
A little fisher-boy came up the shore
And saw Him -- and, nor bold, nor shy,
Approached, but when he saw the weary face,
Said mournfully to Him: "You look a-tired."
He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow
Caressingly and blessingly -- and said:
"I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not.
Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm
That had been sweeping on the farther shore,
Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell
At His feet and died; and then the boy said:
"Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone;
He took the bird and laid it in His hand,
And breathed on it -- when to his amaze
The little fisher-boy beheld the bird
Flutter a moment and then fly aloft --
Its little life returned; and then he gazed
With look intensest on the wondrous face
(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) -- and said:
"Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God."
He leaned down towards the boy and softly said:
"I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him,
With cross upon His shoulders, to His death,
Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock
That little boy knelt down, and there adored,
While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.
One Who Loved Nature
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
He was not learned in any art;
But Nature led him by the hand;
And spoke her language to his heart
So he could hear and understand:
He loved her simply as a child;
And in his love forgot the heat
Of conflict, and sat reconciled
In patience of defeat.
II.
Before me now I see him rise
A face, that seventy years had snowed
With winter, where the kind blue eyes
Like hospitable fires glowed:
A small gray man whose heart was large,
And big with knowledge learned of need;
A heart, the hard world made its targe,
That never ceased to bleed.
III.
He knew all Nature. Yea, he knew
What virtue lay within each flower,
What tonic in the dawn and dew,
And in each root what magic power:
What in the wild witch-hazel tree
Reversed its time of blossoming,
And clothed its branches goldenly
In fall instead of spring.
IV.
He knew what made the firefly glow
And pulse with crystal gold and flame;
And whence the bloodroot got its snow,
And how the bramble's perfume came:
He understood the water's word
And grasshopper's and cricket's chirr;
And of the music of each bird
He was interpreter.
V.
He kept no calendar of days,
But knew the seasons by the flowers;
And he could tell you by the rays
Of sun or stars the very hours.
He probed the inner mysteries
Of light, and knew the chemic change
That colors flowers, and what is
Their fragrance wild and strange.
VI.
If some old oak had power of speech,
It could not speak more wildwood lore,
Nor in experience further reach,
Than he who was a tree at core.
Nature was all his heritage,
And seemed to fill his every need;
Her features were his book, whose page
He never tired to read.
VII.
He read her secrets that no man
Has ever read and never will,
And put to scorn the charlatan
Who botanizes of her still.
He kept his knowledge sweet and clean,
And questioned not of why and what;
And never drew a line between
What's known and what is not.
VIII.
He was most gentle, good, and wise;
A simpler heart earth never saw:
His soul looked softly from his eyes,
And in his speech were love and awe.
Yet Nature in the end denied
The thing he had not asked for fame!
Unknown, in poverty he died,
And men forget his name.
The Silent Battle
by Sara Teasdale

(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)
He was a soldier in that fight
Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
The stealthy foemen come.
Year in, year out, by day and night
They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
No fife was blown, and no drum beat.
In winter fog, in gathering mist
The gray grim battle had its end,
And at the very last we knew
His enemy had turned his friend.
The Slave
by Madison Julius Cawein

He waited till within her tower
Her taper signalled him the hour.
He was a prince both fair and brave. - 
What hope that he would love her slave!
He of the Persian dynasty;
And she a Queen of Araby! - 
No Peri singing to a star
Upon the sea were lovelier....
I helped her drop the silken rope.
He clomb, aflame with love and hope.
I drew the dagger from my gown
And cut the ladder, leaning down.
Oh, wild his face, and wild the fall:
Her cry was wilder than them all.
I heard her cry; I heard him moan;
And stood as merciless as stone.
The eunuchs came: fierce scimitars
Stirred in the torch-lit corridors.
She spoke like one who speaks in sleep,
And bade me strike or she would leap.
I bade her leap: the time was short:
And kept the dagger for my heart.
She leapt.... I put their blades aside,
And smiling in their faces - died.