DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Tomb
by Matthew Arnold

So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!
In your high church, 'mid the still mountain air,
Where horn, and hound, and vassals never come.
Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,
From the rich painted windows of the nave,
On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave:
Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more arise
From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,
On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,
And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds
To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;
And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive,
Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,
The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,
Coming benighted to the castle-gate.
So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!
Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair
On the carved western front a flood of light
Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright
Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave,
In the vast western window of the nave,
And on the pavement round the Tomb there glints
A chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints,
And amethyst, and ruby; then unclose
Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose,
And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads,
And rise upon your cold white marble beds;
And, looking down on the warm rosy tints,
Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints,
Say: 'What is this? we are in bliss forgiven
Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!'
Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain
Doth rustlingly above your heads complain
On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls
Shedding her pensive light at intervals
The moon through the clere-story windows shines,
And the wind washes through the mountain-pines.
Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high,
The foliaged marble forest where ye lie,
'Hush', ye will say, 'it is eternity!
This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these
The columns of the heavenly palaces.'
And, in the sweeping of the wind, your ear
The passage of the Angels' wings will hear,
And on the lichen-crusted leads above
The rustle of the eternal rain of Love
Sun-Dial, In The Churchyard Of Bremhill
by William Lisle Bowles

So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade,
Brief Time; and hour by hour, and day by day,
The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
And like a summer vapour steal away!
And have not they, who here forgotten lie
(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past!)
Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,
Nor thought it fled, how certain, and how fast!
Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,
Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath;
The pastor and his flock alike have slept,
And dust to dust proclaimed the stride of death.
Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,
Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,
As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power;
So smiling and so perishing the while.
I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound,
When to these scenes a stranger I drew near,
Proclaim the tidings to the village round,
While memory wept upon the good man's bier.[1]
Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells
Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone;
While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,
And strangers gaze upon my humble stone!
Enough, if we may wait in calm content,
The hour that bears us to the silent sod;
Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent,
And leave the issue to thy will, O God!
Fluffy, A Cat
by R. C. Lehmann

So now your tale of years is done,
Old Fluff, my friend, and you have won,
Beyond our land of mist and rain,
Your way to the Elysian plain,
Where through the shining hours of heat
A cat may bask and lap and eat;
Where goldfish glitter in the streams,
And mice refresh your waking dreams,
And all, in fact, is planned - and that's
Its great delight - to please the cats.
Yet sometimes, too, your placid mind
Will turn to those you've left behind,
And most to one who sheds her tears,
The mistress of your later years,
Who sheds her tears to summon back
Her faithful cat, the white-and-black.
Fluffy, full well you understood
The frequent joys of motherhood - 
To lick, from pointed tail to nape,
The mewing litter into shape;
To show, with pride that condescends,
Your offspring to your human friends,
And all our sympathy to win
For every kit tucked snugly in.
In your familiar garden ground
We've raised a tributary mound,
And passing by it we recite
Your merits and your praise aright.
"Here lies," we say, "from care released
A faithful, furry, friendly beast.
Responsive to the lightest word,
About these walks her purr was heard.
Love she received, for much she earned,
And much in kindness she returned.
Wherefore her comrades go not by
Her little grave without a sigh."
To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXXIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Volo con l' ali de' pensieri al cielo.
HE SEEMS TO BE WITH HER IN HEAVEN.
So often on the wings of thought I fly
Up to heaven's blissful seats, that I appear
As one of those whose treasure is lodged there,
The rent veil of mortality thrown by.
A pleasing chillness thrills my heart, while I
Listen to her voice, who bids me paleness wear--
"Ah! now, my friend, I love thee, now revere,
For changed thy face, thy manners," doth she cry.
She leads me to her Lord: and then I bow,
Preferring humble prayer, He would allow
That I his glorious face, and hers might see.
Thus He replies: "Thy destiny's secure;
To stay some twenty, or some ten years more,
Is but a little space, though long it seems to thee."
NOTT.
To Theodore De Banville, 1842 - (Twelve Translations From Charles Baudelaire)
by John Collings Squire, Sir

So proud your port, your arm so powerful,
With such a grip you grip the goddess' hair,
That one might take you, from your casual air,
For a young ruffian flinging down his trull.
Your clear eye flashing with precocity,
You have displayed yourself proud architect
Of fabrics so audaciously correct
That we may guess what your ripe prime will be.
Poet, our blood ebbs out through every pore;
Is it, perchance, the robe the Centaur bore,
Which made a sullen streamlet of each vein,
Was three times dipped within the venom fell
Of those old reptiles fierce and terrible
Whom, in his cradle, Hercules had slain?
Upon A Gentlewoman With A Sweet Voice.
by Robert Herrick

So long you did not sing or touch your lute,
We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute.
But when your playing and your voice came in,
'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.
Young Love Postscript
by Richard Le Gallienne

So sang young Love in high and holy dream
Of a white Love that hath no earthly taint,
So rapt within his vision he did seem
Less like a boyish singer than a saint.
Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life too high,
It is a bird that hath no feet for earth:
Strange wings, strange eyes, go seek another sky
And find thy fellows of an equal birth.
For many a body-sweet material thing,
What canst thou give us half so dear as these?
We would not soar amid the stars to sing,
Warm and content amid the nested trees.
Young Seraph, go and lake thy song to heaven,
We would not grow unhappy with our lot,
Leave us the simple love the earth hath given -
Sing where thou wilt, so that we hear thee not.
Desertion
by Rupert Brooke

So light we were, so right we were, so fair faith shone,
And the way was laid so certainly, that, when I'd gone,
What dumb thing looked up at you? Was it something heard,
Or a sudden cry, that meekly and without a word
You broke the faith, and strangely, weakly, slipped apart.
You gave in, you, the proud of heart, unbowed of heart!
Was this, friend, the end of all that we could do?
And have you found the best for you, the rest for you?
Did you learn so suddenly (and I not by!)
Some whispered story, that stole the glory from the sky,
And ended all the splendid dream, and made you go
So dully from the fight we know, the light we know?
O faithless! the faith remains, and I must pass
Gay down the way, and on alone. Under the grass
You wait; the breeze moves in the trees, and stirs, and calls,
And covers you with white petals, with light petals.
There it shall crumble, frail and fair, under the sun,
O little heart, your brittle heart; till day be done,
And the shadows gather, falling light, and, white with dew,
Whisper, and weep; and creep to you. Good sleep to you!
Marsh Hymns. - Thou and I.
by Sidney Lanier

So one in heart and thought, I trow,
That thou might'st press the strings and I might draw the bow
And both would meet in music sweet,
Thou and I, I trow.
1881.
The Well-Born
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

So many people - people - in the world;
So few great souls, love ordered, well begun,
In answer to the fertile mother need!
So few who seem
The image of the Maker's mortal dream;
So many born of mere propinquity - 
Of lustful habit, or of accident.
Their mothers felt
No mighty, all-compelling wish to see
Their bosoms garden-places
Abloom with flower faces;
No tidal wave swept o'er them with its flood;
No thrill of flesh or heart; no leap of blood;
No glowing fire, flaming to white desire
For mating and for motherhood:
Yet they bore children.
God! how mankind misuses Thy command,
To populate the earth!
How low is brought high birth!
How low the woman; when, inert as spawn
Left on the sands to fertilise,
She is the means through which the race goes on!
Not so the first intent.
Birth, as the Supreme Mind conceived it, meant
The clear imperious call of mate to mate
And the clear answer.    Only thus and then
Are fine, well-ordered, and potential lives
Brought into being.    Not by Church or State
Can birth be made legitimate,
Unless
Love in its fulness bless.
Creation so ordains its lofty laws
That man, while greater in all other things,
Is lesser in the generative cause.
The father may be merely man, the male;
Yet more than female must the mother be.
The woman who would fashion
Souls, for the use of earth and angels meet,
Must entertain a high and holy passion.
Not rank, or wealth, or influence of kings
Can give a soul its dower
Of majesty and power,
Unless the mother brings
Great love to that great hour.
Finale.
by Madison Julius Cawein

So let it be. Thou wilt not say 't was I!
Here in life's temple, where thy soul may see,
Look how the beauty of our love doth lie,
Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!
Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh!
This is the end. What need to tell it thee!
So let it be.
So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him,
And sorrow, who sat by him deified,
For whom his face made comfort, lo! how dim
They heap his altar which they can not hide,
While memory's lamp swings o'er it, burning slim.
This is the end. What shall be said beside?
So let it be.
So let it be. Did we not drain the wine,
Red, of love's sacramental chalice, when
He laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine?
Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill again
Now it is empty of the god divine!
This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen.
So let it be.
The Mother
by Theodosia Garrison

So quietly I seem to sit apart;
I think she does not know or guess at all,
How dear this certain hour to my old heart,
When in our quiet street the shadows fall.
She leans and listens at the little gate.
I sit so still, not any eye might see
How watchfully before her there I wait
For that one step that brings my world to me.
She does not know that long before they meet
(So eagerly must go a love athirst),
My heart outstrips the flying of her feet,
And meets and greets him first--and greets him first.
Upon Woman And Mary.
by Robert Herrick

So long, it seem'd, as Mary's faith was small,
Christ did her woman, not her Mary call;
But no more woman, being strong in faith,
But Mary call'd then, as St. Ambrose saith.
Debtor
by Sara Teasdale

So long as my spirit still
Is glad of breath
And lifts its plumes of pride
In the dark face of death;
While I am curious still
Of love and fame,
Keeping my heart too high
For the years to tame,
How can I quarrel with fate
Since I can see
I am a debtor to life,
Not life to me?
Talk
by John Frederick Freeman

So many were there talking that I heard
Nothing at first quite plain, as I sat down;
Until from this man's gibe and that keen word,
Another's chilly smile or peevish frown,
I caught their talk--but added none of mine.
They said how she still fumbled with her fate,
How she had banished visitants divine,
How long her sleep had been, her sloth how great,
How others had drawn near and passed her by,
While she luxuriously had dreamed, dreamed on,
She, she her own eternal enemy,
And wanting brain, brain, brain would be undone.
The glasses tinkled as they talked and laughed,
And if the door a moment hung ajar
The noises of the street, remotely soft,
Crept in as from a world sunken afar.
And still they talked, and then well pleased were pleased
To talk of other things--another's wife,
Money that ministers to a mind diseased,
And queer extravagant whims of death and life....
But I rose up, flushed at the careless slander,
Heedless what other laughing things were said,
And my bruised thoughts began to lift and wander
Far off, as from that jargoning I fled.
I saw the sharp green hills, the silver clouds
At rest upon the hills, the silver streams
Creeping between prone shoulders of dark woods.
I saw wide marshlands laved with level beams
Of the last light; I saw ships on the sea
That foamed hard by, stinging the fretful shore;
I smelt old ships on the deserted quay
That English sailors sailed, and will no more;
I thought of men I loved, and of dead men
I had longed to know--and each heroic ghost
Rose and moved on, and left me alone again
Aching for love and splendour glimpsed and lost.
God knows what things I thought when anger broke
Her narrow dam and swept my spirit clean.
Yet I for very shame not a word spoke,
But to my heart's heart caught the things I had seen,
And England, England! murmuring, stood and stared,
Swept like a lover with sweet influence
In brain and bone--and happy that I had spared
Her nobleness the indignity of defence.
The Sonnets XCIII - So shall I live, supposing thou art true
by William Shakespeare

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many's looks, the false heart's history
Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange.
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
To Anthea Lying In Bed.
by Robert Herrick

So looks Anthea, when in bed she lies
O'ercome or half betray'd by tiffanies,
Like to a twilight, or that simpering dawn
That roses show when misted o'er with lawn.
Twilight is yet, till that her lawns give way;
Which done, that dawn turns then to perfect day.
The Maiden-Blush.
by Robert Herrick

So look the mornings when the sun
Paints them with fresh vermilion:
So cherries blush, and Kathern pears,
And apricots in youthful years:
So corals look more lovely red,
And rubies lately polished:
So purest diaper doth shine,
Stain'd by the beams of claret wine:
As Julia looks when she doth dress
Her either cheek with bashfulness.
Father John's War-Song
by William Morris

THE REAPERS.
So many reapers, Father John,
So many reapers and no little son,
To meet you when the day is done,
With little stiff legs to waddle and run?
Pray you beg, borrow, or steal one son.
Hurrah for the corn-sheaves of Father John!
FATHER JOHN.
O maiden Mary, be wary, be wary!
And go not down to the river,
Lest the kingfisher, your evil wisher,
Lure you down to the river,
Lest your white feet grow muddy,
Your red hair too ruddy
With the river-mud so red;
But when you are wed
Go down to the river.
O maiden Mary, be very wary,
And dwell among the corn!
See, this dame Alice, maiden Mary,
Her hair is thin and white,
But she is a housewife good and wary,
And a great steel key hangs bright
From her gown, as red as the flowers in corn;
She is good and old like the autumn corn.
MAIDEN MARY.
This is knight Roland, Father John,
Stark in his arms from a field half-won;
Ask him if he has seen your son:
Roland, lay your sword on the corn,
The piled-up sheaves of the golden corn.
KNIGHT ROLAND.
Why does she kiss me, Father John?
She is my true love truly won!
Under my helm is room for one,
But the molten lead-streams trickle and run
From my roof-tree, burning under the sun;
No corn to burn, we had eaten the corn,
There was no waste of the golden corn.
FATHER JOHN.
Ho, you reapers, away from the corn,
To march with the banner of Father John!
THE REAPERS.
We will win a house for Roland his son,
And for maiden Mary with hair like corn,
As red as the reddest of golden corn.
OMNES.
Father John, you have got a son,
Seven feet high when his helm is on
Pennon of Roland, banner of John,
Star of Mary, march well on.
Achilles Over The Trench
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

ILIAD, XVIII. 2O2.
So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away.
Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus; and round
The warrior's puissant shoulders Pallas flung
Her fringed 'gis, and around his head
The glorious goddess wreath'd a golden cloud,
And from it lighted an all-shining flame.
As when a smoke from a city goes to heaven
Far off from out an island girt by foes,
All day the men contend in grievous war
From their own city, but with set of sun
Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the glare
Flies streaming, if perchance the neighbours round
May see, and sail to help them in the war;
So from his head the splendour went to heaven.
From wall to dyke he stept, he stood, nor join'd
The Ach'ans'honouring his wise mother's word'
There standing, shouted, and Pallas far away
Call'd; and a boundless panic shook the foe.
For like the clear voice when a trumpet shrills,
Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a town,
So rang the clear voice of 'akid's;
And when the brazen cry of 'akid's
Was heard among the Trojans, all their hearts
Were troubled, and the full-maned horses whirl'd
The chariots backward, knowing griefs at hand;
And sheer-astounded were the charioteers
To see the dread, unweariable fire
That always o'er the great Peleion's head
Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess made it burn.
Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout,
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies;
And there and then twelve of their noblest died
Among their spears and chariots.
Whistler.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

(At the Exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum, March, 1910.)
So sharp the sword, so airy the defence!
As 'twere a play, or delicate pretence!
So fine and strange, so subtly poised, too
The egoist, that looks forever through!
That little spirit, air and grace and fire,
A-flutter at your frame, is your desire;
No, it is you, who never knew the net.
Exquisite, vain, whom we shall not forget!
Poetics
by Robert Browning

'So say the foolish!' Say the foolish so, Love?
'Flower she is, my rose' or else, 'My very swan is she'
Or perhaps, 'Yon maid-moon, blessing earth below, Love,
That art thou!' to them, belike: no such vain words from me.
'Hush, rose, blush! no balm like breath,' I chide it:
'Bend thy neck its best, swan, hers the whiter curve!'
Be the moon the moon: my Love I place beside it:
What is she? Her human self, no lower word will serve.
Pause.
by Madison Julius Cawein

So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stain
The aisle, along which life must pass,
With hues of mystic colored glass,
That fills the windows of the brain.
So sick of thoughts! the thoughts, that carve
The house of days with arabesques
And gargoyles, where the mind grotesques
In masks of hope and faith who starve.
Here lay thy over weary head
Upon my bosom! Do not weep!
"He giveth His beloved sleep."
Heart of my heart, be comforted.
Half an Hour Before Supper
by Bret Harte (Francis)

'So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train,
And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?'
'Of course,' he replied, 'she would know me; there never was womankind yet
Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget.'
'Then you told her your love?' asked the elder. The younger looked up with a smile:
'I sat by her side half an hour what else was I doing the while?
'What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,
And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?
'No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as the look,
And I held up herself to herself, that was more than she got from her book.'
'Young blood!' laughed the elder; 'no doubt you are voicing the mode of To-Day:
But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay.
'There's my wife (you must know), we first met on the journey from Florence to Rome:
It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where was her home;
'Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again;
And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that day on the train.'
'Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express;
Forty miles to the hour,' he answered, 'won't admit of a passion that's less.'
'But what if you make a mistake?' quoth the elder. The younger half sighed.
'What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?' he replied.
'Very well, I must bow to your wisdom,' the elder returned, 'but submit
Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit.
'Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal
With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real?
'Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist you shall follow this way.
My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?
'My wife, Mr. Rapid Eh, what! Why, he's gone yet he said he would come.
How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and dumb!'