DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Ubique
by Rudyard Kipling

There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may
'You bike,' 'you bykwee,' 'ubbikwe ', alludin' to R.A.
It serves 'Orse, Field, an' Garrison as motto for a crest,
An' when you've found out all it means I'll tell you 'alf the rest.
Ubique means the long-range Krupp be'ind the low-range 'ill,
Ubique means you'll pick it up an', while you do, stand still.
Ubique means you've caught the flash an' timed it by the sound.
Ubique means five gunners' 'ash before you've loosed a round.
Ubique means Blue Fuse an' make the 'ole to sink the trail.
Ubique means stand up an' take the Mauser's 'alf-mile 'ail.
Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can 'old.
Ubique means that 'orse's scream which turns your innards cold!
Ubique means 'Bank, 'Olborn, Bank, a penny all the way,
The soothin', jingle-bump-an'-clank from day to peaceful day.
Ubique means 'They've caught De Wet, an' now we sha'n t be long.'
Ubique means 'I much regret, the beggar's goin' strong!'
Ubique means the tearin' drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud,
The khaki muzzles duck an' lift across the khaki flood.
Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers.
Ubique means the mirage again an' shellin' all outdoors.
Ubique means 'Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein'!
Ubique means 'Off-load your guns', at midnight in the rain!
Ubique means 'More mounted men. Return all guns to store.'
Ubique means the R. A. M. R. Infantillery Corps!
Ubique means that warnin' grunt the perished linesman knows,
When o'er 'is strung an' sufferin' front the shrapnel sprays 'is foes;
An' as their firin' dies away the 'usky whisper runs
From lips that 'ave n't drunk all day: 'The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!'
Extreme, depressed, point-blank or short, end-first or any'ow,
From Colesberg Kop to Quagga's Poort, from Ninety-Nine till now,
By what I've 'eard the others tell an' I in spots 'ave seen,
There's nothin' this side 'Eaven or 'Ell Ubique does n't mean!
Sorry
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life's way,
And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day.
I'm sorry for the strong, brave men who shield the weak from harm,
But who, in their own troubled hours, find no protecting arm.
I'm sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand
As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure's hand.
I'm sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine,
But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune's drear decline.
I'm sorry for the souls who build their own fame's funeral pyre,
Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire.
I'm sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin's defeat,
But daily tread down fierce desire 'neath scorched and bleeding feet.
I'm sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion's strain,
But I'm sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love's pain,
Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave,
For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o'er a grave.
I'm sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth,
I'm sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth,
I'm sorry for the suffering poor in life's great maelstrom hurled - 
In truth, I'm sorry for them all who make this aching world.
But underneath whate'er seems sad and is not understood,
I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good.
And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text - 
The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.
Two Lives.
by Madison Julius Cawein

1
"There is no God," one said,
And love is lust;
When I am dead I'm dead,
And all is dust.
"Be merry while you can
Before you're gray;
With some wild courtesan
Drink care away."
2
One said, "A God there is,
And God is love;
Death is not death, but bliss,
And life above.
"Above all flesh is mind;
And faith and truth
God's gifts to poor mankind
That make life youth."
3
One from a harlot's side
Arose at morn;
One cursing God had died
That night forlorn.
Hymn
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

There is in all the sons of men
A love that in the spirit dwells,
That panteth after things unseen,
And tidings of the future tells.
And God hath built his altar here
To keep this fire of faith alive,
And sent his priests in holy fear
To speak the truth--for truth to strive.
And hither come the pensive train
Of rich and poor, of young and old,
Of ardent youth untouched by pain,
Of thoughtful maids and manhood bold.
They seek a friend to speak the word
Already trembling on their tongue,
To touch with prophet's hand the chord
Which God in human hearts hath strung.
To speak the plain reproof of sin
That sounded in the soul before,
And bid you let the angels in
That knock at meek contrition's door.
A friend to lift the curtain up
That hides from man the mortal goal,
And with glad thoughts of faith and hope
Surprise the exulting soul.
Sole source of light and hope assured,
O touch thy servant's lips with power,
So shall he speak to us the word
Thyself dost give forever more.
June, 1831.
Sorry
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life's way.
And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day.
I'm sorry for the strong brave men, who shield the weak from harm,
But who, in their own troubled hours find no protecting arm.
I am sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand
As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure's hand.
I'm sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine,
But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune's drear decline.
I'm sorry for the souls who build their own fame's funeral pyre,
Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire.
I'm sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin's defeat,
But daily tread down fierce desire 'neath scorched and bleeding feet.
I'm sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion's strain,
But I'm sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love's pain.
Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave,
For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o'er a grave.
I'm sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth,
I'm sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth.
I'm sorry for the suffering poor in life's great maelstrom hurled,
In truth I'm sorry for them all who make this aching world.
But underneath whate'er seems sad and is not understood,
I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good.
And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text -
The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.
There Is No Death, There Are No Dead
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

(Suggested by the book of Mr. Ed. C. Randall.)
'There is no death, there are no dead.'
From zone to zone, from sphere to sphere,
The souls of all who pass from here
By hosts of living thoughts are led;
And dark or bright, those souls must tread
The paths they fashioned year on year.
For hells are built of hate or fear,
And heavens of love our lives have shed.
Across unatlassed worlds of space,
And through God's mighty universe,
With thoughts that bless or thoughts that curse,
Each journeys to his rightful place.
Oh, greater truth no man has said,
'There is no death, there are no dead.'
It lifts the mourner from the sod,
And bids him cast away the reed
Of some uncomforting poor creed,
And walk with Knowledge for a rod.
It bids the doubter seek the broad
Vast fields, where living facts will feed
All those whose patience proves their need
Of these immortal truths of God.
It brings before the eyes of faith
Those realms of radiance, tier on tier,
Where our beloved 'dead' appear,
More beautiful because of 'death.'
It speaks to grief:    'Be comforted;
There is no death, there are no dead.'
The Ape (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

There is an ape in Paris to whom a wife was once given; and he, imitating many another husband, beat the poor creature to such an extent that she sighed all the breath out of her body and died.
Their son uttered the most doleful howls as a protest to this terrible business.
The father laughs now. His wife is dead and he already has found other lady companions, whom, no doubt, he beats in the same way; for he haunts the taverns and is frequently tipsy.
Never expect anything good from people who imitate, whether they be apes or authors. Of the two the worst kind is the imitating author.
On Seeing Plants In The Windows Of Seth Ward's College, Endowed For Widows Of Clergymen, At Salisbury.
by William Lisle Bowles

There is but one stage more in life's long way,
O widowed women! Sadly upon your path
Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends,
Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair;
And lonely age is yours, whose tears have fallen
Upon a husband's grave, - with whom, long since,
Amid the quietude of village scenes,
We walked, and saw your little children grow
Like lovely plants beside you, or adorned
Your lowly garden-plot with summer flowers;
And heard the bells, upon the Sabbath morn,
Chime to the village church, when he you loved
Walked by your side to prayer. These images
Of days long passed, of love and village life,
You never can forget; and many a plant
Green growing at the windows of your home,
And one pale primrose, in small earthen vase,
And bird-cage in the sunshine at the door,
Remember you, though in a city pent,
Of morning walks along the village lane,
Of the lark singing through the vernal hail,
Of swallows skimming o'er the garden pond, - 
Remember you of children and of friends
Parted, and pleasant summers gone! 'Tis meet
To nurse such recollections, not with pain,
But in submission to the will of Heaven;
Thankful that here, as the calm eve of life,
In pious privacy, steals on, one hearth
Of charity is yours; and cold must be
That heart, which, of the changes of the world
Unmindful, could receive you but as guests,[203]
Who had seen happier days!
Yet one stage more,
And your long rest will be with him you loved.
Oh! pray to God that each may rest in hope!
There Is An Eminence, Of These Our Hills
by William Wordsworth

There is an Eminence, of these our hills 
The last that parleys with the setting sun; 
We can behold it from our orchard-seat; 
And, when at evening we pursue out walk 
Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
Above us, and so distant in its height, 
Is visible; and often seems to send 
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: 
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
In the mid heavens, is never half so fair 
As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth 
The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved 
With such communion, that no place on earth 
Can ever be a solitude to me, 
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.
A Song
by James Whitcomb Riley

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings alway:
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves dip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear -
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear
There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.
The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear -
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear -
There is ever a song somewhere!
To Robert Browning
by Walter Savage Landor

There is delight in singing, tho' none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walkt along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
Fragment On Painters
by Rupert Brooke

There is an evil which that Race attaints
Who represent God's World with oily paints,
Who mock the Universe, so rare and sweet,
With spots of colour on a canvas sheet,
Defile the Lovely and insult the Good
By scrawling upon little bits of wood.
They'd snare the moon, and catch the immortal sun
With madder brown and pale vermilion,
Entrap an English evening's magic hush . . .
Will
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent or hinder or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the fool prate of luck.    The fortunate
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
Whose slightest action or inaction serve.
The one great aim.
Why, even Death stands still,
And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.
Epilogue
by Madison Julius Cawein

There is a world Life dreams of, long since lost:
Invisible save only to the heart:
That spreads its cloudy islands, without chart,
Above the Earth,'mid oceans none has crossed:
Far Faerylands, that have become a part
Of mortal longings; that, through difficult art,
Man strives to realize to the uttermost.
Could we attain that Land of Fa'rie
Here in the flesh, what starry certitudes
Of loveliness were ours! what mastery
Of beauty and the dream that still eludes!
What clearer vision! Ours were then the key
To Mystery, that Nature jealously
Locks in her heart of hearts among the woods.
The Flag Of Brothers.
by A. H. Laidlaw

There is blood upon the Banner, the Banner of the Free,
There is blood upon our Banner, and it lies 'twixt you and me,
And, like the blood of Abel, it crieth from the sod,
And it crieth unto God throughout the Morning.
There's a blot upon the Banner, the Banner of the Free,
There's a blot upon our Banner, and it lies 'twixt you and me,
And, like the soul of Samuel, it riseth from the clod,
And it crieth unto God throughout the Nooning.
There's a curse upon the Banner, the Banner of the Free,
There's a curse upon our Banner, and it lies 'twixt you and me,
And, like the curse of Cain, it scars our brows with pain,
And it sears a Brother's brain throughout the E'ening.
May the Lord now bleach this Banner, the Banner of the Free,
And keep that Banner floating as a pledge 'twixt you and me,
And, like the eyes of Noah, as the Flood of Blood flies from us,
May we see the Bow of Promise in the Morning.
Our Banner, then, unsullied, this Banner of the Free,
Will be a Brother's Banner, held up by you and me,
And, like a Christian people, as example unto others,
We will wave the Flag of Brothers on that Morning.
There Is No God, The Wicked Sayeth
by Arthur Hugh Clough

"There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing."
"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby."
"There is no God, or if there is,"
The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money."
"Whether there be," the rich man says,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual."
Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;
And almost everyone when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.
Life
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Pessimist
There is never a thing we dream or do
But was dreamed and done in the ages gone;
Everything's old; there is nothing that's new,
And so it will be while the world goes on.
The thoughts we think have been thought before;
The deeds we do have long been done;
We pride ourselves on our love and lore
And both are as old as the moon and sun.
We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,
And the end for each is one and the same;
Time and the sun and the frost and wet
Will wear from its pillar the greatest name.
No answer comes for our prayer or curse,
No word replies though we shriek in air;
Ever the taciturn universe
Stretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.
With our mind's small light in the dark we crawl,
Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,
Till the Power that shaped us, over us all
Poises His foot and treads us out.
Unasked He fashions us out of clay,
A little water, a little dust,
And then in our holes He thrusts us away,
With never a word, to rot and rust.
'Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot,
This life of hate and of lust and pain,
Where we play our parts and are soon forgot,
And all that we do is done in vain.
II.
Optimist
There is never a dream but it shall come true,
And never a deed but was wrought by plan;
And life is filled with the strange and new,
And ever has been since the world began.
As mind develops and soul matures
These two shall parent Earth's mightier acts;
Love is a fact, and 'tis love endures
'Though the world make wreck of all other facts.
Through thought alone shall our Age obtain
Above all Ages gone before;
The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain,
Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.
Within ourselves is a voice of Awe,
And a hand that points to Balanced Scales;
The one is Love and the other Law,
And their presence alone it is avails.
For every shadow about our way
There is a glory of moon and sun;
But the hope within us hath more of ray
Than the light of the sun and moon in one.
Behind all being a purpose lies,
Undeviating as God hath willed;
And he alone it is who dies,
Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.
Life is an epic the Master sings,
Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul,
Where each is a word in the Song of Things,
That shall roll on while the ages roll.
There is No God, the Wicked Sayeth
by Arthur Hugh Clough

'There is no God,' the wicked saith,
'And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing.'
'There is no God,' a youngster thinks,
'or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby.'
'There is no God, or if there is,'
The tradesman thinks, ''twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money.'
'Whether there be,' the rich man says,
'It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual.'
Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;
And almost everyone when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.
Darkness And Light
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

There is darkness still, gross darkness, Lord,
On this fair earth of Thine.
There are prisoners still in the prison-house,
Where never a light doth shine.
There are doors still bolted against Thee,
There are faces set like a wall;
And over them all the Shadow of Death
Hangs like a pall.
Do you hear the voices calling,
Out there in the black of the night?
Do you hear the sobs of the women,
Who are barred from the blessed light?
And the children,--the little children,--
Do you hear their pitiful cry?
O brothers, we must seek them,
Or there in the dark they die!
Spread the Light! Spread the Light!
Till earth's remotest bounds have heard
The glory of the Living Word;
Till those that see not have their sight;
Till all the fringes of the night
Are lifted, and the long-closed doors
Are wide for ever to the Light.
Spread--the--Light!
O then shall dawn the golden days,
To which true hearts are pressing;
When earth's discordant strains shall blend--
The one true God confessing;
When Christly thought and Christly deed
Shall bind each heart and nation,
In one Grand Brotherhood of Men,
And one high consecration.
At The Railway Station, Upway
by Thomas Hardy

"There is not much that I can do,
For I've no money that's quite my own!"
Spoke up the pitying child -
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in, -
"But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one 'tis, and good in tone!"
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
Uproariously:
"This life so free
Is the thing for me!"
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in -
The convict, and boy with the violin.
Preludes
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
There is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
There is no metre that's half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.
If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach
My heart their beautiful parts of speech,
And the natural art that they say these with,
My soul would sing of beauty and myth
In a rhyme and metre that none before
Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore,
And the world would be richer one poet the more.
II.
A thought to lift me up to those
Sweet wildflowers of the pensive woods;
The lofty, lowly attitudes
Of bluet and of bramble-rose:
To lift me where my mind may reach
The lessons which their beauties teach.
A dream, to lead my spirit on
With sounds of faery shawms and flutes,
And all mysterious attributes
Of skies of dusk and skies of dawn:
To lead me, like the wandering brooks,
Past all the knowledge of the books.
A song, to make my heart a guest
Of happiness whose soul is love;
One with the life that knoweth of
But song that turneth toil to rest:
To make me cousin to the birds,
Whose music needs not wisdom's words.
Tyranny.
by Madison Julius Cawein

There is not aught more merciless
Than such fast lips that will not speak,
That stir not if I curse or bless
A God that made them weak.
More madd'ning to one there is naught,
Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes,
Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,
An exile in the skies.
Ah, silent tongue! ah, ear so dull!
How angel utterances low
Have wooed you! they more beautiful
Than mortal harsh with woe!
A Ballad Of Too Much Beauty
by Richard Le Gallienne

There is too much beauty upon this earth
For lonely men to bear,
Too many eyes, too enchanted skies,
Too many things too fair;
And the man who would live the life of a man
Must turn his eyes away - if he can.
He must not look at the dawning day,
Or watch the rising moon;
From the little feet, so white, so fleet,
He must turn his eyes away;
And the flowers and the faces he must pass by
With stern self-sacrificing eye.
For beauty and duty are strangers forever,
Work and wonder ever apart,
And the laws of life eternally sever
The ways of the brain from the ways of the heart;
Be it flower or pearl, or the face of a girl,
Or the ways of the waters as they swirl.
Lo! beauty is sorrow, and sorrowful men
Have no heart to look on the face of the sky,
Or hear the remorseful voice of the sea,
Or the song of the wandering wind in the tree,
Or even watch a butterfly.